Jimmy  Thompson

My evening in West Texas begins in a Mexican cantina with a Miller and large chili. The chips seemed heavy, so the jukebox in the corner becomes my focus. I play a couple of Fleetwood Mac tunes while sipping beer and slurping chili with a plastic spoon. Gazing out the window, there is a small Indian boy in a corral. He’s trying to pull a wild horse into a barn, which is a spectacle. The mood in the cantina seems sour, had the news spread? How many more like me were there? Strange nervousness affects my composure and chili dribbles form my mouth onto the table. The jaw munches in slow motion. Now, I am eerily aware, that people in the cantina are becoming uneasy with this performance and my sudden lack of neatness is causing stares. Damn this planet. I leave; no tip this time. No, there’s a need for fast wind to ease this tension and loose my nerves; my aggression is seeping and becoming impetuous.

Leaving the cantina, I am heading west along a gray, vacant stretch of highway. My car passes a squadron of motorcycles headed east; they are stopped on the side of the road, reattaching some packs that must have blown loose in the wind. The lights of the patrol car appear in my rearview and a Texas deputy’s mirrored shades are visible just below the flashing lights. I am a little uneasy with the thought of a deputy rummaging through my car, but things like this either work out or not fairly quick. Country boys usually lack the ability to comprehend unknown things; so the more cooperative I am the more likely it is I will be able to continue south on schedule. If he did happen to discover what was in the trunk, he wouldn’t know what the hell it is anyway, but it may stir a deeper investigation. It would have to be in the millions that he recognized it. So relaxing, I put on a warm visage of moral uprightness then combining it with slight confusion. He’s standing at my window; he’s tall but slight in frame. Cropped blonde hair musters underneath his hat. The brown uniform is creased perfect, starched heavy, with a laser badge. The strap on his holster is loose. I could take him here, just gouge into his throat with animal pressure, the shock would paralyze him, then leave his carcass by the shoulder of the road.

“Evening. Terrible wind,” I say.

“Evening, license and registration please.” I hand him my license and other documents and he removes his sunglasses.

“I will be back, just sit tight and I will be back in a few.”

I nod and relax in the seat. The sun was just beginning to set beyond the foothills and the last rays of dusk catch my eyes and force me to lower the sun visor. The officer soon reappears at my window.

“I appreciate your patience sir, can you step out of the car please.”

“Sure, what’s the trouble?”

“Well, you have some warrants out of Dallas.”

“Yeah, Dallas?”

“Are you carrying any weapons? Drugs? Empty your pockets on the hood please.”

“Now listen! I’ve never been to Dallas!”

“Me neither sir, but the computer says James Thompson has a warrant for distribution in Dallas.”

“There must be a mistake,” I stutter, while he empties my pockets, putting the lighter, cigarettes, and keys on to the hood. His hands frisk me quickly and he places the cuffs securely around my wrist. If there were somewhere to be, immediately, I would handle him differently. I think of the case in my trunk and stay calm. The worst is maybe spending a night in jail: being that I’m not James Thompson, nor from Dallas, nor a human being, what the hell do I care. A day behind would not put things terribly askew at this point.

“I am gonna read you your rights here real quick, cause I figure the faster we can get ya in, the quicker you can get this straightened out with the courts. Ya follow.”

“I follow.” Why not, now, the cuffs were already on.

He locks my car and gives me a nudge into the back seat. The late model sedan cruiser pulls off the shoulder with a dust cloud in its wake and we head south bound. My thoughts and eyes drift across the dimly lit landscape, it’s a nice evening, vacant of anything spectacular aside from small hills and this reminds me of something else I have to take care of. Cows, horses, small brushes and hills dance across a fading blue skyline. He adjusts his mirror and starts a conversation.

“I’m not going to search the vehicle, it’ll be searched when it gets towed to the lot, no warrant or permission necessary. I’m supposing that’s all right wit you, correct?”

“Sure, why not?”  I say.

“Don’t seem too worried to me, may be you oughta be, eh?”

“Told you deputy, before, I’ve never been to Dallas.”

“We’ll see here in a bit.”

“Right!” He answers a call on the radio, and then the conversation starts again. His Texas dull accent drags across my ears with its muffled by the hum of the car’s engine.

“These are strange times partner. You been listen to the radio, all the horse shit out on the West Coast.” He pauses. “I gotta daughter out there and I haven’t been able to get an answer on the phone all week. All damn week. Needless to say I’m a bit worried, being that I had an argument with her. Kid’s damn stubborn.”

I didn’t feel like talking at this point but I turn my gaze to the front seat and figure being polite may get me a whole lot farther than rude silence. However, I did know what he was saying about the West Coast.

“What’s happening out West?”

“Shit, damn mess. Seems as though a bomb went off in a few ports up and down the West coast, and now everyone’s getting sick all the sudden. Last I saw on the news is they rounded up a bunch of Middle Eastern fellahs who they say were responsible, but they ain’t saying much more aside from that. Hospital’s out there fillin up fast. A guard unit outta Amarillo was called up to go out there.”

“Sounds serious to me.”

“Yeah, maybe it is.”

“Maybe it’s the apocalypse?”

“May be we outta change the subject.”

“That might be best.”

We pull into a parking lot surrounded by a rusty chain link fence that is about eight feet high. We walk past a couple of deputies and into a white room made bright by fluorescent bulbs that hang overhead in strips. There are lots of desks with computers and people typing and carrying paper work from one desk to the other. He sits me down on a wooden bench where someone has carved HELL-RAISER into the armrest. I close my eyes and wait for him to return. Some time passes before another arrestee wakes me. He’s a tall man with curly black hair at the top of his head and is sitting next to me. His face has bad acne; pockmarks scar his cheeks, and sharp blue eyes that peer down on me with confusion. A local idiot plain and simple; of course he wants a conversation too.

“Killed a dog,” He said quietly.

“What?” I ask.

“Shhh, I killed a dog. German dog. Killed him dead with a wire-line around the neck. Then drug him around back and forth in front of his owner’s house with my Dodge truck.”

“Jesus! Fuck!” is the only thing I could think to say.

Just as I said that the deputy who brought me in grabs me by the arm, then looks at the tall man menacingly. “Shut the fuck up Horse!” He says to him then pulls me away down the hall.

“I apologize for our local population, we get some strange ones now and again, but Horse by far is the strangest within the county line. Full moon maybe?” He pauses when he says this, but I refuse to reply. “Wind is something fierce, getting worse by the hour.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Well, what news you want first, good or bad.”

“Bad!” I say.

“We are gonna fingerprint ya and send’em on to Dallas, see if you match their James Thompson. So you’re gonna spend the evening wit us in the doghouse.”

“What’s the good news?”

“You gonna have your own cell, no roomies. You’re it until later on this evening when we get the drunks, and if all works out we will send ya on your way and may be even give ya breakfast, if you’re nice. How that be?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope, not from where I stand.”

“The doghouse huh? All right then lets get it over with.”

We are in a darker room and the fingerprints are read electronically through sensors that reflect my imprint through a lens type device. They appear instantly on a large screen. He holds my fingers firmly, rolling them against a small foam pad. My nerves inhibit this operation.

“I didn’t expect to see something this high tech here. Looks out of place, given your décor.”

“Well, so do you, given your appearance; so don’t talk, it messes up the prints,” He says sarcastically.

He sits me down in a wooden chair in front of a gray metal desk. This office is smaller than the one I was in originally, containing only one other desk belonging to a fat sergeant who is busy filing and flipping papers, a stuffed fish hangs on the wall. The only other thing in the room besides a gun rack, was the giant fingerprint machine, which glows and beeps without warning. It had a large presence. They seemed inconvenienced by the machine and would occasionally glance menacingly in its direction whenever it set off a beep.

We walk  down a dimly lit hallway. I am a little apprehensive about them searching my car, but if they find the thing it will probably just confuse them; they’ll let me go, and I can get on with this, hopefully.

He closes the cell door and I place my hands through the bar and he releases the cuffs. It’s eight o’clock and I am sleepy. My eyes close quickly, off to sleep……….

The low muffled hum of the power dying wakes me. I open my eyes and what little light there was is gone. It’s dark as night. Lying there a few minutes, my eyes adjust. Stark and contrasting sounds can be heard through the pitch black, but they’re far and distant, not immediate. There are no sounds echoing within the hall outside my cell.

Sitting there, upright on the bed, my boots steady on the concrete floor below my rack, I try to focus and anticipate. My heart palpitates slightly when the realization that I am trapped enters my brain. All manner of chaos could be erupting around me, but there was no leaving. The cell is locked, no key, what happens now? The rack’s rusty springs let out a screech when my body lifts, its metallic scream seeming to overtake all other small sounds outside. When the spring’s echo fades, all is silent, had the bed just given me away? Should this even worry me? A saturating warmth penetrates my cell; the air becomes moist and sweat beads on my face.

“Anybody there?” My voice cracks against the cinderblock walls.

Silence. Black silence was the only reply. Panic creeps over my mind. My heart jumps when the metal door at the far end of the hall way opens with a faint squeal.

“Hello!…………….I know what’s happening, I can help.” My voice booms against the emptiness. Suddenly there are a variety of noises down the hall, which sound like chairs and desks moving, then books falling on the floor. They grow louder and closer, then stop. Silence reclaims the cellblock briefly, for a moment. Few minutes of silence pass, then, I hear the most terrifying sound I’ve ever experienced on any planet. It sounds as if somebody is slamming two large wet beef patties on the concrete floor, a squishy slapping sound. It starts at the far end, outside my cell, where the metal door is and makes its way towards me. I crouch in the back right corner of my cell quietly, and wait to see what monster could be making the sound.

Slap……..Slap……then, slap, slap, slap , slap, slap, slap. The sound picks up speed, my fists clinch and my eyes squint to make out what it is. The sounds stop just short of my cell. Could it hear me breathing? I didn’t know. Out of the dark its two bloody hands grip the bottom bars of my cell and it mashes its veined face through the opening. The thing’s jaw is foaming, the eyes are red with rage about to spring from the sockets. The teeth are grinding, lashing out at the air. What once had been human was now no more. It seems to be the remains of a deputy; his legs were gone up to about mid thigh. The two nubs are flailing, flinging blood into a wide spray while the rest tries to break through the bottom bars to get at me. Standing, I feel somewhat safe, that this thing is no threat, given the bars and its mutilated state, but it was a surreal horror to behold.  A gasp escapes from my mouth, it’s a reflex. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” My fear bounces from the cell and down the hall.

Just as my sanity is about to slip away, a loud gunshot blows from the right catching the thing in the side, sliding the disgusting menace past my cell and sending a fountain of blood and matter all over the walls. Then, shaken and distraught, with mania in his eyes, the deputy who brought me in appears at my cell door.

“Can you help?” He says

II

Deputy North

Burritos and eggs dance on my stomach as Lay Down Sally plays low over my cruiser’s radio. I normally stop at the Mexican Cantina in the evening. The dinner there is cheap and keeps me moving the rest of the night. This evening is warm and the wind is blowing the dirt in wave like motions down the interstate. It is very windy out, more so than usual.

I usually catch a few winks in my cruiser, but I’m behind on my ticket issuance, so I travel up and down the highway. Folks just passing through all the time, they’re either headed east, or out west. Lotta deputies adapt that stereotypical type persona, from the movies and all, when they pull over a speeder, not me. I like to treat folks, as I would want to be treated if pulled over by a deputy. My attitude is polite, probably more polite than I outta be, but that’s just in my nature. Good up bringin, suppose, but it works. And in my fifteen years of riding this stretch of road I’ve never had to pull my side arm once. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve had to unhook my holster a couple of times now and again, out of premonition mostly. Sometimes there’s just this funny feeling; when I’m walking up on a vehicle, but I never pull it all the way, never mind use it. Most times I walk right up and don’t even think about it, other times I just look at the car and unhook it before getting outta the cruiser.

Clocking a Mustang pulling about a 100 my wrist throws it in gear and the tires jump off the shoulder. I light her up and feel some surprise when the fellah pulls over about a half mile down the road. A car like that, being painted black usually gives you a slight chase, but this fellah is pretty quick to relinquish. Taking my time, sitting in my car for about three minutes, just to insure that he won’t take off when I get out, let him settle in there a little. Wanna give him time to think about it. After about five minutes, I exit the car. Unhooking my holster, bad feeling here with this one, just hoping not to catch a face full of dust. The wind makes it difficult to walk to his vehicle.

I get to the window and he looks a little off center. He just stares at his wheel, don’t even recognize me seems. Tapping on the window, he turns and looks, something weird about his eyes and mouth.

Grabbing his license, the wind makes hard for me to return, but when his name goes through it has a hit, outta Dallas. My holster is definitely loose now, I return to the vehicle and break the news, he takes it surprisingly well and I become more polite when I got him in restraints. Just really making this quick, though I shouldn’t, don’t wanna search his car because this wind is vicious.

Making my way back to the station, the fellahs pretty quiet, eerily so. An attempt at initial polite conversation fails. He’s a weird looking guy, short with dark blank eyes, he’s almost troll like, but I don’t mention it. He chimes in and gives some pretty strange responses, so I let the talking go for now.

The sky is all dark now and the station house looks calm for the evening, the drunks will start up in a few hours, so the best thing is to get him in and bedded down til morning. But, of course I let Ernie know to go pick up this guy’s Mustang. Little activity in the office tonight, and while typing up the report there’s peace, but this is soon shattered.

Horse has been in the station twice this month, each crime more disturbing than the last. Asked his mom twice already to have him committed, for his own sake. He’s a vile bastard, but dumb and kind every time I’ve had to speak at him. Deputy Johnson places him on the bench next to the fellah with the warrant, Horse wakes him and Horse is muttering some kinda insane obscenity at the man because all of the sudden warrant man seems spooked to hell. I get up and grab Horse, placing him in the interview room, of course he cusses me up and down and left to right, but this isn’t unusual, so placing him in the room he relaxes a little.

Talking with him a few minutes now after putting Mr. Thompson away, trying to find out why he committed animal cruelty, but the lights go out. My first reaction is that it’s a power failure, but they don’t come back. So, though I should know better, I leave the room and Horse unattended to find out what hell happened, telling Horse that if he moves I will mace his sorry ass. The hall outside the interview room is dark. Sounds echo through out the station, chairs moving, some grunts, but surprisingly quiet.

“Hey, where you at?” I yell. No response. “What happened?” Johnson, Murphy, where you guys at?”

My mini flashlight in hand, I walk down about six feet to where the office is. Shining the light around, the room is vacant, wait a minute, there’s somebody on the floor by the first desk. It’s Johnson and the small beam of my light doesn’t move him, he’s just laying there, face down. I place my hand on his neck to feel for a pulse, but he rolls around and grabs my wrist. His face is animal like, he’s in a frenzy, jumping back I let go of the light and it rolls across the floor.

“Johnson, what the hell man!” He lurched toward me moaning and gasping like a wild pig. Jumping to the other side of the room, my eyes glance the shotguns on the wall, grabbing one then pointing it at Johnson.

“Johnson, listen to me here, I will put bullets in your chest if you come at me again. What the fuck is wrong with ya? Hey, don’t you remember us fishin last week”

Johnson grabs his knees, and lets loose this horrible sound deep from within his throat. With the shadows cast by the faint light from the floor, his face is visible. It cannot be described, this was not the same man telling me fishing stories less than three hours ago, the veins have ripped through the skin, and his mouth is putrid, the eyes, they’re bloodshot little pods.

“Stay right there, Johnson!” He throws the desk against the wall and papers fly, the fucker leaps at me, I pull the trigger, aiming for his chest, but in the dark it catches him in the face. A sharp crack, then a pop from the impact, and his brains and blood are sent cascading throughout the office, little bits hang on the ceiling fan overhead. I move back slowly into the next room, listening for anybody else.

Picking up the phone from a wall; I dial the operator, no answer; then dialing the firehouse, no answer. A shiver shoots through my spine when the realization of the actual danger; the situation that I may be in. Leaving the phone, and continuing down the hall, there are other bodies on the floor, but my previous experience keeps me from agitating them. Hot now, I am sweating the room is humid. The door to the cellblock is open, so moving swiftly into the hallway I see what looks like Murphy, but his legs are gone. He’s clamped onto the bars outside warrant man’s cell. I hear a scream from the cell and pull back on the trigger to the shotgun and send what’s left of Murphy skidding down the hall.

Unbelievable is the only thing that comes to mind. In the short amount of time I was in the room with Horse, the world has turned rabid on me, so I see how Thompson is. He looks normal as far as I can tell, little scared, but he’s not trying to kill me.

“Can you help?” I say.

“Yes, I can.”

“If I open this door, will you behave, cause I will leave ya right here. We still undetermined as far as your criminal status goes, but that seems to be a moot point this moment. So, are you James Thompson outta Dallas?”

“ I told you deputy, I ain’t ever been to Dallas.”

“Then, who the hell are ya then? Because we’re gonna have to be on a trusting basis, seems, if we’re gonna get out of this station alive.”

“In light of present circumstances, deputy, does it really matter? I am obviously not infected.”

“Infected? Son, one more time, who are you?”

“My names Galias Kalapas. I am from a planet outside this solar system and in my trunk is an interstellar detonator that I am carrying to the West Coast.”

“So, you’re a nut?”

“If you say deputy.”

“Ernie said the only thing in your trunk was a metal suitcase full of steel ball bearings……Well, fair enough, Mr. Kalapas, you are now deputized. We are going up that hall, through the station, and out into the night. My pistol here is loaded, anything tries to stop us, you unload on’em. Follow me?”

Unlocking the cell he comes out and takes the pistol without hesitation and falls in behind me.

HORSE

“Deputy! Deputy North where you at?”

The room is dark and a gunshot echoed down the way a few minutes back. The deputy may mace me, but just don’t give a fuck. I get myself up and walk outside into the hall, nothing. Not a damn soul.

“Deputy, where you at?” Nothing, just black and silence. “What the hell Deputy?”

Down at the far end of the hall the fire exit sign is still lit. Don’t normally make it a habit of running from custody, but the situation here is a bit unusual, so no harm no foul on this one Deputy. Walking down the hall, toward the exit sign, feeling my way as I go. There’s  a noise from behind one of the doors on the left. Sounds like somebody moaning, hurt like. When I knock on the door the moaning stops.

“All right in there? I’m looking for Deputy North.” No response. Pushing the door open, the room is of course dark, but my eyes adjust and there’s a female deputy slumped over one of the office desks.

“M’am, you all right?” When she turns around to acknowledge me it’s the most god-awful thing I’ve ever seen. The eyes are bulging out of her head, like a goddamn cartoon character. The veins are pushing through skin, making it all purple and swelly like.

“Now look here girl,” I say to her. “I’m gonna run and get some help for ya.” There was no intention on my part of getting her help. My tail was running for that exit sign. The girl starts screaming and jumps at me. Dodging her, I place myself behind the desk. She turns and is on the other side now.

“Look here darling! I’m going out that door.” I say, then push the desk hard pinning her in a corner of the room. She’s swinging at me with these blood stained arms, growling like a pissed bull.

Moving away from the desk, I make my way to the door, but she pushes the desk aside quickly and leaps for me, but my feet are faster and her arms miss me. At this point, there’s no escaping through the door without moving her, so I jump on her back while she’s lurched over. Her arms and head are going wild. On her back, I guide the beast out into the hall, not even treating it as a human no more, riding her back, punching her head. We go down the hall banging into the walls like we’re in NASCAR. Red smears mark the walls where we hit, dark red streaks, must be from me punching the head. All the while I’m yelling like a bastard, “Yeahhhh girl let’s go.” Never losing my grip on the neck. Her hands keep reaching back grabbing hold of my pant’s leg. But when we reach the exit sign I reach down and grab her shooter from its holster; pressing the barrel snug up against the back of the brain. “This is it baby doll,” I say. The pistol cracks and her face sprays all over the exit door and we fall to the ground.

Looking down at it, the head is just a pile of mush. I wipe the barrel of the gun against the back of the brown shirt, then tucking it snugly into my jeans, moving outside in the fresh air. There have been some wild rides in my life, none like that one though, sure is crazy but my mind doesn’t want to ponder what’s going on. Epidemic? Maybe something else? Here’s not the place to sit and shift through this, keep moving, out of the area, wait in the hills til dawn. That’s good thinking. Need to find a vehicle. I move around to the front of the station and there’s two figures lingering by the gate of the lot. I am calm and cool. They’re right at the gate and getting past them is the trick. Stopping what ever they were doing, they look in my direction.

“Evening boys,” I say casually. “Weird night, there was this lady back a bit and..”

“Wooooah fellahs!” The tall one starts staggering towards me drunk like. He swings and I hit him in the head with my pistol. I do the same to the other one, they seem to be in the same condition as the lady back in the hall, all mutated and rabid like an animal. I run inside the fence and lock the gate. Walking away the animals get back up and claw and howl at the fence, but it holds, for now and I peruse the lot for a ride.

The prettiest black Mustang sits in the corner, the trunk and door are unlocked, but no key. There aren’t but a few cars so when I bust open the lock box with a metal pole I grab all there are, one has to fit. The dirty bastards are still clawing at the gate and I yell, “ be with ya in a minute boys!”

She’s a beauty she is, and starts right up too. Then the cold steel of a gun is at my ear. My eyes shift to the right, and low and behold.

“Deputy! I was just looking for ya.”

“I bet your slick tale was! Now, turn the car off and get you skanky ass in the back.”

I hand the deputy the keys like he asked, then he yanks my pistol outta my pants and opens the back seat for me.

“Thanks boss,” I say.

The deputy gets in the drivers seat and a small fellah who I was sitting on the bench with earlier this evening gets in the passenger. A strange uneasy vibe overtakes me when the small fellah gets in, eerie like.

“ So, where we going deputy?”

“Out the gate and down the highway Horse, down the highway, west maybe. This all right with you?”

“Fine deputy, just fine.” I relax in the seat and we take off through the gate sending those poor bastards scattering across the hood. A nice bright moon is swinging low against the hilly skyline and the evening almost seems peaceful.

“Say deputy.”

“What?”

“You play any organized sports? Because you strike me as the type of fellah who…”

He swings around keeping one hand on the wheel and puts that shooter right at the tip of my nose.

“Just making conversation deputy!”

“Don’t, the last thing we need tonight is your insanity spilling all over this car. Just shut up and relax.”

“K, deputy, ok.”

The deputy relaxes and the short guy sits there quiet with a pistol in his lap, he’s just staring at it. My eyes continue to look out the window as we do about eighty, headed west and I begin to think and analyze all that’s happened and feel an abnormal sense of prosperity come over me, like I just won a lottery. Strange feeling, but good, and the more I figure it begins to dawn on me. The deputy is scared because the balance in this world has shifted, from all total law and order, to total chaos. And for once, the weight of the world has tipped in my favor. I begin to laugh uncontrollably, but they ignore it because the same thing has dawned on them too.

The cornfield stops, but the wood line continues out of sight. To my right, there’s grass opening with a small white farmhouse. A barn sits in front and off to the right. They are both obscured by the wood and corn from the main road. I take the opportunity to rest and compose, I consult my map and compass.

I opt for a night in the barn. I light a small fire in a wood stove inside. Puffing at the coals I manage a small flame and I roast some beans, mixing them with a few corn husks. The meal is harsh and rough, but sets well on my stomach allowing me a decent night’s sleep.

The early morning’s few single rays penetrate the boards of the barn leaving me awake and restless. I spent the evening in the hay loft amongst bugs and dust. I am lying in hay with an old horse blanket. I walk down stairs below the overhang where I spent the night and open the doors.

I step cautiously around the barn, noticing the high boards that composed its walls. The small white cottage house, which stood in front of the faltering cornfield, seemed awake and as well. The house’s paint was faded like the barn, but it had a magnificent front porch, complete with a swing, barrel tables, and homemade chairs. I decided against exploring the house right then and stick to the barn as the sun slowly reappears behind the woods.

There, various tanks of chemicals and farming paraphernalia hold a place along the wall. In the middle, a late model Ford pickup is covered with a black tarp. It looks to have once a long while ago been someone’s pet project.

Walking up stairs I open a large door at the top of the barn that I assume was there to throw hay down to trucks below. The sky is clear revealing a calm country day, birds flying, the wind pushing the corn husks against each other. I feel at ease, but this feeling passes quickly. This is not the place, because just thirty miles to the north is a city, populated with the walking dead. A city that once thrived with commerce and trade was now left as a concrete tomb to remind all that enter of what once was, and will never be again.

Three, only three, I see them coming up the hill through the moon shaped window and realize that my idling here may be a liability. Taking out my binoculars I can just make three. They stumble a bit then linger. All three are males, which makes them more dangerous and aggressive. I watch for about thirty minutes as they make their way toward the barn, slowly, through the broken terrain and rambling underbrush. No more than three. If I could take these two out quietly I could manage to buy a couple more nights here, in peace, but this would have to be quiet. Noise attracts, flames attract, anything out of bounds with nature or surroundings causes alert. The last thing I need is a whole city barreling down on me because of a few gunshots that crack the mid-afternoon silence. No, this would have to be quick and violent. Maybe an axe? Decapitation is silent, but I would have to separate them with a distraction, take them down one at a time, this is best I think. I have close to twenty-five minutes before they would be at the house, given their pace.

I grab an axe from the wall, along with a flat head shovel, then some rope and proceed back upstairs with my binoculars. Only two! I can only see two now, about twenty minutes out. Where’s the third? A missing target, this would throw my plan of attack. I walk back to the hay door, and then I hear the door to the house open. I hit the floor, while pulling my pistol from my waistband. Crawling to the edge of the floor, I peek over the side I see a small athletic woman in her mid to late forties walk onto the porch carrying a basket of white linen. She is whistling. She proceeds to the side of the house to a clothes line and begins hanging her sheets with care. Her whistling is audible from my position in the barn and will soon be audible to the dead coming up the hill. Stopping her hanging, she walks to the foundation of the house where there is a window that must belong to the basement.

“I’ll be in, just one minute,” She says.

Looking to the left I see the two dead coming up the side of the corn line, with a slow shuffle and gaited step. The woman returns to her task, whistling all the while. She cannot see them through her sheets; I would have to move fast. I crawl back from the side and take hold of the axe and rope, attaching the rope to my belt loop I move softly down the stairs and use the truck as cover, I spot the zombies’ position. The girl could still not see them or else she would have probably screamed, which would in turn attract more. I would like to avoid taking on a horde, I hadn’t the energy. I cross the open area between the house and the barn and push my body flat up against the side of the house. I creep to the corner and peer around. The woman has a soft angelic face, slightly wrinkled and a firm thick body which is accentuated by tight fitting jeans and a tee shirt. Her hair is blonde and looks clean and well kept under the sun.

A zombie moves slow and quiet, there is some heavy breathing at times, but mostly quiet despair. They carry their agony well, only unleashing it when a victim appears. I remember watching one on the deck of my frigate before coming ashore after the infection. I was laying overhead out of sight, about three feet above the deck. He was an Ensign, about twenty five. I remembered seeing him in the galley often during my time on board. His blood smeared khakis said that he had been at someone already and now was just wandering, lost. He dragged his left foot with a weight and I figured that the virus must paralyze some of the muscles in the body. He reaches the bow of the ship and screams a long howl that made my hair stand on end. My guess is the brain is the first to start to deteriorate and speech the first human quality to dissipate from a zombie’s body, physical movement and all else quickly follow leaving the man or woman in an animal state, a purely raw hunger replaces the soul and what is left is not classifiable into any category. I remember crawling away slowly, leaving the thing there circling the deck in anguish.

I could not get a visual on the two dead because the sheets were blocking the view, but I knew they were out there just beyond the flowing white, slowly closing in on her. I move quickly placing my hand over her mouth then dragging her behind the house. She is kicking. I can barely hold onto her. She is strong for her age. I push her up against the side of the house not taking my hand off her mouth, fearing she would scream and provoke the attackers. Placing a finger over my lips, I slowly let my palm drop from hers.

“There are two of them coming.” I whisper and her eyes that are bulging with tension, slowly relax and she nods.

“Who are you?”

“Stay here, I’ll come back.”

I leave her leaning against the back of the house and move to the clothesline. I can hear their footsteps, but can’t see. I drop to the ground and under the hanging linens see their feet shuffling, they’re about three feet away. Their bodies mingle with the hanging sheets and I use this to my advantage, they are being blinded by the laundry, one of their heads indents the sheet and I swing my axe directly into the top causing it to split and splatter against the white linen. The zombie lets out a howl and collapses with the sheet wrapping around the front of its body. I place the blade against his neck and finish the thing. Having seen what happened, the other one picks up its pace through the clothes and sheet. He lunges toward me, I place the axe through a sheet into his chest causing him to bend in the middle. A gush of blood soaks the surrounding linens and I spin back as to not get any on me. The thing falls to its knees then once again bury my axe into the  forehead with a quick jerk, then yanking it back out with an easy thrust, causing a burst of red to fountain into the air. It falls onto a sheet as well and I place the blade against its tattered neck, separating the head from the spine with quick jam of my heel against the back of my blade, while pulling the handle up with a tight grip. The action was savage and hastily done. I cover the bodies with the remaining sheets. I tie the rope around their legs and drag them off into the cornfield, and return to the lady behind the house.

“So, thank you?” She says.

“That was traumatic.” I say.

“Are there anymore?” She replies.

“Well, One. I believe.”

“Where, close?” She huddles up against the house and I place my arm on her shoulder. She’s quite good looking; I’m impressed with her handsome features accented with manicured eyebrows.

“Dunno, could be. Let’s go inside, I don’t want to seem forward but…” She agrees and we go up onto the porch and I continue with some small talk while roving my eyes up across the field, searching for the lost zombie. Perhaps he’s in the corn, I think.

“So you live here alone.” I ask.

“No, my husband lives with me, our kids are grown, but we haven’t heard from them in sometime. We are so worried.”

“Where’s your husband now? Away?”

“No, he’s here.” This reply surprises me. I thought for sure that the growls would have had him out of the house in concern for his wife.

We walk into the house and I notice that it’s modestly decorated with hints of country in the air. The walls are populated with vintage oil landscapes. Books about southern heritage and cooking sit on the shelves. The room is neat, but the furniture arranged casually, as if it receives frequent use. I expect a great bust of a man with a beard and flannel shirt to appear in the living room to greet me. However, there was nothing. No man appeared. No firm handshake or offer of a beer, nor sincere thanks for saving his wife. Nothing. The woman kept jabbering on and on, and then I begin to feel nervous with the thought that something is seemingly awkward, askew, a slight absence of normalcy begins to prevail.

“They aren’t deer, but not quite human either? So, I guess killing them, well, seems sporty.” She says in a southern twang.

“Sporty?  – I guess?” is my reply.

“Do you think they have feelings? Lingering instincts? I think they have memories and the abilities to recognize. What about you, do you have an opinion in the matter? Probably not seeing the way you handled those two. But thanks anyway, I appreciate your help.”

Listening to her ranting had made me unaware, until now, of the thick heat that permeated the room. A thick humid dense like steam from a pot. I began to sweat just by being in the room for a few minutes. She notices my discomfort then switches on a ceiling fan.

“Thanks.” I say. “It’s warm in here, especially for this time of the year.”

She nods her head and offers me a drink from the kitchen. I plant myself on the couch, a red upholstered number with paisley leaves. Leaning against the arm I cross my legs and survey the room, for signs of the husband. She returns with a can of beer which I heartily accept and open.

“So, is your husband down stairs?” I say pointing to the doorway with stairs that obviously lead to a basement of some sort.

“Yes, he’s downstairs. He doesn’t like company.” She says.

I take this reply with shock. How could anyone not want company? For all this couple knew, they could be the last ones one earth. Not wanting company after an apocalypse seems absurd, even for someone with the severest anti-social complex, but these are her words to me as sure as I am sitting on this couch. Her facial expression changed because of my prying and I felt she was becoming bit guilt plagued.

” I am being terribly rude. Let’s go down stairs and let me introduce you two… I forgot my manners! Where are you from?”

“Maine, actually.”

“Long way from Maine?”

“Yeah, I was shipwrecked.”

“Are you a fisherman?”

“No, I’m in the Navy. Well, was in the Navy.”

“So, you retired?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“There’s no Navy to retire from, exactly.”

“Eh.”

She says this in a strange subdued tone and I feel a little uneasiness come into my mind. Getting up from her wicker chair by the window she leads me to the doorway that winds into the basement. If I were a better I would have wagered fifteen to one that her husband was bed ridden with gunshot wound, perhaps; rheumatism, cholera, cancer, or any other form of debilitating disease. However, I was shocked to find the flanneled, bearded husband I had imagined offering me a beer in the living room was chained to a cinder block wall.

His face is mauled with the virus, leaving him as alert as a deer stunned with a gunshot wound to the head. We entered the room and he the thing immediately became agitated. The noise that vibrated from within is animalistic and human, with tones of utter horror. She is calm, but quickly angered when the thing chained to the corner by its neck rises.

Shocked and scared I raise my gun but the woman approaches without hesitation and reaches over to a small table. She picks up a stun gun and aims at the creature’s jaw. It immediately senses the threat and retreats back to its corner in the basement, bawling and howling all the while.

“My husband was bitten some time ago. He’s still there. Mostly, the disease was slow to spread through his thick body. However, I feel I can still enjoy his presence, despite the terrible smell and looks.”

Her head turns in my direction and I give her an uneasy smile, but I do not venture from the last stair. She tosses rotten corn husks at its feet and her husband touches them slowly, and then quickly places them between his teeth, gnawing and drooling on the rotten vegetable. I am becoming sick to the stomach from the whole thing, but the woman stays amused by her husband’s reduced state. She crosses to the other side of the basement and is temporarily out of my sight. She returns folding a long cattle whip in her hands.

“If you keep them disciplined, they are easier to handle and keep, like dogs. Hahhh!!” She screams in a spontaneous release of manic energy and begins lashing the thing. The beastly remains of her husband become enraged and lunge toward our position, but they’re thrown back by the chain and collar on its neck.

I do not wish to speculate on how she attached the chain and collar, but I can guess that the day he awoke with that around his neck was probably far worse that the day he was infected. I felt saddened and slowly backed up the stairs while the woman tore the flesh of the hopeless beast strip by strip with that whip.

I retreat slowly up the stairs. I become horrified by the whole scene. The relationship had seemingly taken a turn for the worse, he seemingly having the worst end. I didn’t know who to feel sorrier for, her, or her husband. A sick feeling palpitates in my chest. I reach the top of the staircase and the woman has stopped the beating. She is now talking soft and sentimental to her husband. I can hear the thing gurgle some syllables, between the sobs it seems like an attempt at speech.

Backing into the living room I see two dead lingering on the porch, peering through the living room window. I kneel down and look out onto the lawn, I see more coming out of the corn. My pack in the barn! I slip backwards into the kitchen and out the back door. I come around the side of the house and quickly across to the bar. I gather my things in haste and I am back on the path running when I hear the window break and a scream. The voice was quickly silenced, but echoes through the landscape. A last whisper of justice bellows through a dying world. I continue on, and feel well.

The tall black iron fence is new and stands in contrast to the old cemetery and presents us with an access problem. I visited the cemetery several times through out the week, looking for a grave and searching for the best place to park. Fletcher’s grave sits away from the trees, so there wouldn’t be many roots to contend with and is close enough to the library as to be out of sight. I first heard of the Early Sun Cemetery back in the summer. I was leafing through a newspaper and came upon this article.

LIBRARY WANTS TO DEMOLISH GRAVEYARD

BY GENE MCDONALD

CULBETTER- Local residents petition for graveyard to be left alone by city. Relatives of the Early Sun Cemetery’s resident had petitioned city council to spare their ancestors resting places from the bulldozer. The hundred year old cemetery has been slated for demolition so the library can make way for a new technology wing that will house personal computers for public use.

Culbetter’s city council has not made a ruling yet, but local sources say that a postponing of the relocation is unlikely. The cemetery is slated to be moved on November 14 of this year. Kitty Bern, whose relative is buried in the cemetery, said,” My great grandfather has laid there for sixty years and digging him up now is a horrible sin.” The library refused to comment. However, the library’s janitor,r who has worked there for years, said, “This cemetery has been here for years. Disturbing the dead jus ain’t right. There planty room for them to add on somewhere else without digging dem graves up.”

The city council will make a ruling tonight. A small contingent of protestors is expected to be present, but similar cases that have come up before the council had not been successful.

I see the janitor as I am leaving the library. He is pushing a Toro across the dirt, grass, and sticks of the cemetery and kicking up one hell of a cloud in the process. The parking lot is filling with a dusty mist that casts a reddish hue when it mingles with the late afternoon’s fading sun. I walk up to him in full confidence and exuding all signs of warm sincerity.

“How are ya?” I extend my hand and he accepts. He is in his late fifties. Six feet or so inches tall, salt and pepper hair, wearing painter’s overalls.

“Just fine young man. What can I do for ya?”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Some twenty-five years come May.”

“Twenty five years, eh? How much do you make an hour, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Looking for a job?”

“Well, it’s for a research paper, that’s all.”

“Twelve, twelve an hour. Plus state retirement and all.” Changing his expression slightly to fit with the answer he gives.

“Yeah! Eh, how would you like to make one hundred dollars?”

“Doing what boy!”

“Leave the gate to that cemetery unlocked next Wednesday night. What do you say?”

“Whatch ya want in a cemetery boy?”

“That’s my business, nothing will be destroyed, believe me. Only one grave will be disturbed, which we’ll cover back up when we’re done.”

“Na, sounds like I may end up with a helluva mest when a bunch ah drunk college boys finish raisin hell.”

“Nope, no mess, no nothing, and it will only be two of us. What do you say?”

“No mess?”

“No mess. Not a bit.”

“It’s done.” I pull two fifties from my wallet and the old man shakes on it. He then pauses, “I feel I mus warn ya though. You go pullin on the devil’s tail you might get bit.”

“What are you saying? Are there snakes?” I reply

“Na, no snakes underneath dem stones, jus ded men. Long ded. You go pullin up one of their graves an yew could end up. Well I hate ta say.”

“You just make sure that gates unlocked next Wednesday!”

“Easy son. No problem there young man. Dat gate will be unlocked for ya, sure as the sun will set!” He says while inspecting the two fifties then shoving them in his dirty pocket.

Next Wednesday arrives and the gate is open as negotiated. Ernesto and I fumble around with our shovels and lights for a while until we are situated. The car is parked across the street as to not attract attention. I break ground first. The moon provides some light through the clouds, but the tree branches scatter the rays in awkward patterns, so the light was very sparse. I light an oil lamp and place it on top of the headstone as we dig. We throw dirt over our shoulders with the warmth of the lamp cascading overhead, the bugs our only spectators.

“What’s his name?” Ernesto whispers, not that there was any point. The place was vacant and I couldn’t hear a thing, not even evening traffic from the boulevard a block away. Neighborhood houses are dark and aside from a few dogs barking in the distance, there is still silence.

“Albert Fletcher. It says it right there on the stone.”

“He was a soldier?”

”Yeah, I guess.” I pause for a moment, “Is that a problem?”

“No, not really, just that I was told it was very bad luck to disturb a soldier’s grave.”

“Look, less talk, more digging. I want to get out of her just as fast as you do.”

Digging down about four feet we hit the coffin. We are both sweaty and covered in dirt but we have only been here for an hour. I scrape the remnants of dirt off the coffin with my hand while Ernesto stands graveside, looking around nervously. I gather his heart was pumping just as fast as mine. I take the blade of my shovel and shove it into the side and pry the rotten box open. The top peels off like a wet band aid and I grab it by the edges and toss it over on a mound of dirt beside the grave. I place both my feet on each side of the box so I am standing over the skeleton.

There is not much left. Worms and time had erased any evidence that this was a human or a human’s remains. Portions of the rib cage, spinal column, and femurs are all that are left, and the skull, it was barely recognizable and had large amounts of dirt and root caked on it. I lean forward and grab what seems to be just a ball of mud and root, but slivers of milky bone peeks through the ancient dirt. Two small indentions indicate where the nose had been. This was it. I had a skull.

I muster my best English accent and say, “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Ernesto; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”

Ernesto stops looking around and stares at the huge clump of dirt in my hand.

“Is that it? Is it? Let’s go! Hurry!” He says quickly, as if we were now in a rush for some reason.

But I keep pushing my fingers around the skull letting the flecks of mud slide off my fingertips and onto the ground. A slight wind blows through and I can hear drops of rain hitting the leaves of the oak.

“Let’s go!” He starts shoveling dirt back into the grave, even though I am still in it. I balance carefully on the edges of the coffin, then jump out of the grave and place the skull in a plastic garbage bag we brought.

“Start shoveling, quick! Before the rain comes.” Ernesto shouts. He is furiously throwing dirt into the hole. I join in, but keep glancing back at my prize.

The moon was gone and the rain is pouring by the time we finish filling the grave back in. We hustle out the Iron Gate, leaving it open and swinging. The Oil lamp is left on top of the headstone, still glowing, making our crime scene an eerie highlight in the otherwise black yard.

It was quarter till two when we arrive back at the Frat House. No one was awake and we take the skull into the garage. We wash our hands in a big sink. I take two drafts out of the fridge, handing one to Ernesto. Removing the skull from the bag I place it on top of a work bench and we both stand their in the garage light inspecting what we have stolen.

“Looks kind of fucked up a little.”

“Nah,” I said. “It just needs to be cleaned” I ran some water over it and let the dirt fall until the skull was visible. I place it back on the bench and wipe my hands with a rag.

“Still looks fucked up.” Ernesto says as he places it at different angles letting the light fill the contours and crevices in different ways.

“Nah. It’s fine. It’s just old.” I laugh to myself and Ernesto continues to look at the skull with cockeyed intensity.

“It’s fucked up. Look at it. It’s wrong!”

I grab a rag off the table and remove the remaining bits of mud from the skull, dampening the rag with paint thinner I give the bone a stringent and sterile look. I want Ernesto to see the whole thing, or at least to stop saying it is messed up.

I finish my detail work and stand back. Jesus, I think, it is fucked. One eye socket is immensely bigger that the other, it’s like an orange next to a golf ball. There is a long, thick deformity that runs from the forehead to the back and gives the skull the appearance of a Mohawk. The nasal cavities are too large for any human. The cheek bones are sticking out and give off an alien appearance.

Ernesto smiles, “That’s one ugly skull. God damn! I want to go back and bury that thing.”

“You’re right. Damn! We can’t give them this. They’ll laugh their asses off!” We both stand and stare while sipping our brews, figuring out what to do, or how to present this deformity to the fraternity, if that was possible.

I finally say it, “We gotta go back.”

“Nooo wayyyyy!” Ernesto says. “I am not going back for another skull. You chose the grave and now we are stuck with Albert’s deformed head.”

I start to get pissed, “Look! There is no way we can give this to them, we have to find a replacement. We already have the tools and the gate is still unlocked. It will take two hours, two and a half tops. We should be done by four.” I stop for a brief second and let him digest my logic, then beg, “I need your help.”

“Asshole! Asshole!”

“What were the chances? How could I know the skull would be screwed?”

“Ok, but I ain’t doing a whole lot of digging.”

I felt relief; he agreed to help me do the deed, again. We hop in my car and barrel down the boulevard in the rain. The wipers toss puddles of rain off the windshield as we race against the clock. Frantically, I look over at Ernesto and sense his unhappiness.

“How are we gonna do this in the rain?” He asked.

“We’ll have to! Come on, it won’t be that bad.”

“Why can’t we do it tomorrow night?”

“Because I already spent a hundred bucks to get the gate open tonight and I am not spending another hundred bucks for a skull. Now this shouldn’t take long. Just relax and have another beer.”

“You owe me!” He says this with intensity and then sips his beer.

“I know. I feel cheated in some odd way”, I say, but I know this has to be a case of bad luck and nothing more. I wanted the skull to be perfect and longed for this ordeal to be over.

We race across the street from my car with our shirts over our heads and sliding past the cemetery’s Iron Gate. The oil lamp was still on the headstone, lit and producing a dim beam against the downpour.

We stomp from grave to grave with our flashlights, in the ever deepening puddles that are beginning to form on the surface of the yard. My feet are sinking into the mud with every other step; I stop at a thin tombstone that was taller than the rest. It sits a bit crooked and just has a name and dates, nothing more.

“This one. Here!” I shout.

Ernesto splashes over to where I was standing and shines his light on the headstone.

“Margie Ferrington?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not.”

“A girl’s skull?”

“No one will know except us.”

“I don’t know, just doesn’t seem right, given what we are going to use it for.”

“Well, which one do you like?” He shines his flashlight across the yard and its dim beam points to a white moss covered stone that reads:

To all ye that gaze upon this stone here lies Herald Gossomer. A man who led a prosperous life and died an untimely death. His memory lives on in our works.

“What does that mean?”

“How should I know, but it sounds like he was important or something.”

“Alright. Important is good. Less a chance of him having been the elephant man.”

We break ground on Herald Gossomer’s grave, heaving the mounds of muddy earth into the air in a frantic pace only to have them splash back into the hole. It almost seems like a futile task for a while, but after a half an hour, we hit the coffin.

Same as before, I jam the edge of my shovel into the crevice and pry off the top. The pouring rain immediately floods the box. The rain beats away the dirt this time however, and the skull is more visible than the last. I inspect it with my flashlight and it looks like a fine skull. Ivory white and all the teeth are present. No deformities or abnormal contours. It is a beauty. I toss it to Ernesto who in turn flashes his light underneath, all the beams spill out of the holes.

Then, the rain suddenly stops. All that is audible are drippings from trees and gutters. Tiny drips and splashes of remaining water finding their way to the ground. We are soaked and in terrible shape. I begin to cough as I jump out of the hole.

The night begins to reveal a chill and with our clothes already wet, Ernesto and I begin shaking as we gaze upon the skull. The flashlight underneath reveals strange patterns and I ask Ernesto to turn the light off. He does and it assumes a normal color under the moonlit canopy.

“Let’s take it over to the lamp on the other grave,” I said.

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

We trample over to the other grave which is filled with rain water and mud; most of the remaining bones in the breached coffin have floated out of the hole in the downpour. I rotate the skull under the lamp light and I cannot see anything wrong, no unusual colors or hues.

“Stop, hold the thing right there,” Ernesto said.

“Here?” I held the skull tight and put it even closer to the lamp.

“Yes, I see, there are strange blue patterns, a little yellow, now it’s purple.”

“I see, Jesus, maybe it’s the rain water?”

Just then the whole skull turns a bright green, and gives off a strange glow. I drop the thing right then. It lays half sunk in a puddle, but still pulsing with a warm green glow. Ernesto grabs a shovel and smashes it down on top of the thing, causing the skull to shatter into a bunch of small green fragments that sliver and shine. The bone fragments from the skull begin to take on a life of their own; flapping and squirming around in the mud and water, like grounded little minnows suffocating on a shoreline.

I grab a shovel and begin to cover up the whole scene, Ernesto joins in and we bury every little glowing piece we see. Exhausted, we collapse behind Fletcher’s head stone and I immediately begin to feel weak. I look at Ernesto and see his head shifting shape. The veins pulsating in his face cause the cheeks to tear open. He begins to vomit on the ground and I can see the back of his head growing larger as if some bubble had formed on his brain. His forehead bulges and turns purple, he begins tearing his black hair out in agony. I stand up in panic, he turns and looks at me and his eyes are bleeding. I clasp my shovel and stand back in horrific shock and disbelief. I think I am hallucinating, but his body is pushing the threshold of any human form. His screams and cries crack across the night. Running back to my car I leave him there in self mutilating torture.

Barreling back up the boulevard I keep looking in my rearview mirror to see if anyone is following. I notice my eyes getting larger. I feel a sharp piercing pain run across the middle of my skull and I have blurred vision. I drive faster wanting to make it back to the house to retrieve Fletcher’s skull. Maybe by returning it I could reverse this terrible process that was plaguing us I think to my self, meanwhile my sickness grows worst.. I thought about Ernesto, was he still alive? Could this be explained? “Agggggggggh,” I scream out in agony. My head is pounding with a sharp pain and I feel my forehead and eyes expanding, pushing the skin’s envelope. The blood, turgid against my temple, seems to be boiling beneath my skin. I turn my sight from the mirror and concentrate on the road. The street’s lights trail as my vision becomes worse. I look down at my shirt and see drops of blood. I don’t know where they are coming from. My nose. I reach upwards to feel it but discover just a wet fleshy mound that leaves my fingers dabbled with blood and fluid. I try to focus and keep the car on the road, making it to the garage and that skull is all that matters, this is voodoo of some kind.

After about five minutes of intense pain I look back into the mirror. The vision I see is not me, not in my original form. My forehead is elongated and my eye sockets are drooping and seem to shift shape before my eyes. My chin is now resting on my Adam’s apple and the cheek bones are becoming bloated with fluid.

I crash my car through a huge puddle at the foot of the driveway and pulling my shirt over my head I exit the car and dash inside the garage. Frantically, I bash around the garage barely able to see I place my hands on the deformed skull and shove it underneath my arms. I stumble and fall out of the door. Voices coming up the driveway, but I can only make out blurry and translucent shapes. They are over top of me now speaking.

“Mark, you got it hell yes! What’s a matter man… holy Jesus; fuck Mark, what happened to your face?”

MEDICAL EXAMINER

CULBETTER COUNTY

REPORT OF AUTOPSY

Name: RESTON, Mark Case # 506789 Age: 21 yrs Race: White Sex: Male

Date of death: November 11, 2006 Date of Autopsy: November 14, 2006 at 08:40 hrs

Cause of death: Acute Radiation Sickness caused by external exposure to unknown radiation source. Complete loss of bone marrow and severe internal bleeding then heart failure.

Manner of death: Undetermined

I open my eyes and I am in absolute pain. It takes a while to adjust to the dim light, the moment I open my eyes they fill with water and I have to shut them again. I try to speak , but my throat fills with fluid. I attempt to shout but only gargle sounds. A black blur hovers over me speaking, I assume it is a doctor.

“Well, well, I see you gots bit. By the looks of it you’ve gotten bit good too.” The blur shakes as it laughs. I turn my head sideways and attempt to escape the voice.

“Now come on, the pain, it’ll get worse if you keeps fighting the process. Let me dab yo head with this cool rag. Now, see how much better that feels.”

The moist rag on my forehead eases the burn I feel. I begin to cry I feel hate all of the sudden, intense hate and springing urges to do violent things. Intense images of horrible acts flash through my brain. I feel rushes of rage that subside with feelings of guilt. My mind is changing. I can’t……….

“You going to be the best one yet, I cans tell by the way you let me dab yo head.”