Zombie Nation: Outbreak Zero

ZOMBIE NATION: OUTBREAK ZERO--CHAPTER 5

2010-04-14T12:38:00.000-07:00

Port Angeles.

I tapped away on my laptop–working in a few good pages on my sci-fi novel, Hell Star. It revolved around a freighter captain whose crew discovers a derelict vessel orbiting around Tau Ceti in the year 2103.

At first they thought it was a prison ship–but discovered that it was an alien vessel filled with biological specimens which ran amok and killed the original crew in such horrific ways.

Clues and such were scattered about the dead ship, but things were about to get much worse for my characters.

I was going to make certain of that.

I managed to suppress a grin at first–but let it reign on my face. I had nothing to hide in the emergency room’s main lobby.

The attending nurse said that I could come if I wanted–but I wasn’t much of a socialite.

I politely declined–watching her take my mom inside the double doors leading into one of many examination rooms.

I settled back then, watching a few people come and go–listening to the din of voices both in real-time and over the PA system.

And began typing.

The three hours that we had to wait to be seen (after an 1.5 hour drive from Forks) melted away–into the world that I had created for myself–immersed in tension, worry, anxiety–all drawn on elements of my own life.

I found that some writers enjoyed the freedom and flexibility which came from being a storyteller. Instead of following the crowd, trying to kiss ass with the publishing industry–all in a desperate bid to be a part of that 1% Club.

I wanted to get published myself, but I knew that I had a long ways to go–despite my advanced writing and grammar skills, and a great grasp of the English language as well.

I recall my mom telling me last year that I should become a teacher instead of a published author–but that just made me bristle at the thought.

It was my destiny, not hers!

I could not understand why she wanted me to be something else. I know grandma was a retired school teacher from Seattle–having taught literature and English herself for half a century. She retired only five years ago.

And wanted to go on a cruise to Greece as a reward for herself. My grandfather tagged along as well–not wanting to be left out of this once in a life time opportunity.

They had talked about it. Going to some exotic place far away from the vista of the Straits of Juan de Fuca surrounding their bay-area home at Neah Bay.

But their dream trip ended off the coast of Italy–instead of Athens, Greece.

Asshole captain was drunk on the night watch and ran the ship aground on some obstruction–less than a quarter-mile from the docks in Naples. (Just within spitting distance of the docks mind you–in my personal opinion.)

The board of inquiry from Fincantieri and the Merchant Ships Business Unit–based ironically in Naples–found that the Venice Princess had a three-quarter gash ripped into her belly by a sunken reef.

A reef which had grown from the remains of one of Italy’s oldest battleships–the Littorio. (Sunk as an artificial reef in the 50s–to help bring about a much needed boost in the Italian tourism industry.)

As a result of the grounding, the ship took on water in mere minutes. And while it looked like she was still upright–the starboard side had started to sink into the water.

And like the Andrea Doria, only one side of her lifeboats were made available to the fleeing passengers. Half of the 3,200 passengers died on that day as a result of that melee, and 214 of its crew also perished on top of that.

It was also determined that a lack of communication was to blame–and not just the dead captain’s inherent drunkenness.

Our lawsuit with the company was still pending–and were promised that we wouldn’t see action for another nine months.

Type.

Type.

Type.

I stopped after my last paragraph with the First Mate of the freighter San Corbo going into the alien ship’s galley to check and see if there were any signs of life.

One of the ship’s crew was eaten by what I described as an alien version of the Venus fly trap. But no one knew that he had gone missing.

Stupid dumb ass. I thought fondly of my deceased extra. You never go into some place alone without some backup or at least a paired escort.

Of course, Maria Fuller would miss him badly. Jack Pearson and her were an item early on at the beginning of the book–when the ship left Cray’s Outpost three sectors from the nearest starbase. (And no, this wasn’t a Star Trek rip off. None of these ships had warp drive or weapon systems like phasers or photon torpedoes. They did have a jump drive which allowed them to cross a fair share of space between civilizations.

Crews were armed with weapons which I patterned after the close-range assault rifles used in our time; circa 1990s. Of course, they fired explosive rounds and such. But nothing like the laser pistols from the Old Series, or the phase pistols from Enterprise. I made it a point to make the early 22nd century as tough and rugged as possible.)

Looking around a bit to rest my eyes, I tabbed the save option to save what I had written so far and shut down my laptop to conserve on battery power.

I did bring my power cord with me, but I didn’t want to have to spend that few extra minutes to dink around and mess with unplugging shit–when I wanted to get out and move.

Rising from my chair, I stood ramrod straight for a second to work out the kinks in my body–listening as a few of my joints and cartilage cracked on their own.

Some people watched me do this out of the corner of their eyes–but I didn’t mind. I was more intent on getting that fresh air.

Grabbing my stuff, I walked up to the nurse’s station and asked her how long it would be before my mother came out.

The nurse asked me what her name was–and I gave it–and she said that it would be another 45 minutes before they finished with the first set of preliminary X-rays.

So I had at least thirty minutes to myself.

30 minutes of unchecked freedom.

Thanking her politely, I made my way out–clutching my pack and laptop–and went out the emergency doors in the lobby.

There was a park area for visitors which I immediately went to–thinking that the fresh air and movement would allow me some free-range of motion exercises.

So I went–with a light heart and whistling somewhat off key.

***

“Thank you,” the attending X-ray tech bid politely to Deidre Jordan. He pointed to the intern whom was standing by politely with a wheeled gurney.

“He’ll take you back to your room. The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

The woman nodded gratefully–despite her arm being in a sling and in a Ace bandage cast.

Emily had sprained her wrist–but she was relieved to find out that it was only a mild sprain and it would heal within a month.

Nothing broken. Was the word from the technician. The consulting doctor on call confirmed the same thing–after being paged–and within fifteen minutes–they had done up her arm in a nice and tidy sling.

Tight and comfortable. The on call nurse said with a smile. It should keep your arm from moving.

But the woman was dismayed when she told her that she needed both arms to drive.

On queue, the nurse inquired, Your husband is here–isn’t he?

Deidre recalled shaking her head–as the intern took her back to her waiting room–and wheeled her in without so much as a word of thanks.

Deidre sat imprisoned on her bed–the one-arm wonder–and stewed for awhile.

How could she get back home to Forks?

Emily didn’t have her license yet. She had a learner’s permit–but that only worked within the town limits of Forks. Outside, and she would need a licensed and insured chaperone.

Great. The woman sighed. But what could she do? The hospital wouldn’t understand her predicament. With Robert down in South America, her parents dead, there wasn’t too many people whom she could count on who could take her and Emily home.

Turning on the TV with her good hand, she flipped it to CBS on KIRO 7 and started watching her daytime soaps.

This was a lesson in humility–she saw.

“Never again will I sneak up on her like that–even in her sleep.” She vowed softly to herself, before looking for a box of tissue.

The good part was coming up–she saw. Where Ricardo Sanchez would profess her love for Marcia Stevens; even though she was in a torrid affair with that other TV-star hunk, Donald Tripp.

Deidre found the tissue box and set it down next to her–the tissues already pulled and at the ready.

Looking at the clock, the time was coming up at 1:35 PM–and it would be awhile yet before the residential doctor would be coming in to check up on her.

***

The weather was a lot nicer out here–where I could smell the fresh-water breeze coming in off the Strait of Juan de Fuca; as evident by to stiff breeze coming through the small park.

The trail head lead a winding path through the small area and came out the other side–a maze which I could easily memorize.

There was some people out here–a couple and their two young kids ages between eight and nine.

I nodded to them out of respect–bowing slightly from the waist; as my sensei’s had taught me when I was younger.

The little girl giggled and tried to imitate–something which brought a small smile out of me.

“Transfer student?” The older woman asked of me.

Brushing the hair out of my eyes, I shook my head.

“No. Just a student of the arts.” I respectfully answered.

That brought a look of surprise from her.

“At your age?” She said in awe–looking me up and down.

I nodded again.

“Yes. I was taught at a young age. About a year younger than your son.”

“Why?” The woman blurted out. Then she appeared stricken for the question she asked and apologized. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No,” I brushed aside with ease. “It’s okay. I was taught because of something which happened to my oldest sister. My mother…um…” I looked back at the hospital and shrugged. “Had me enrolled in a few classes to give herself a measure of peace and a way for me to protect myself–should the need ever arise.”

“Has it? I mean, does it work?” The unnamed woman continued to grill me with boundless curiosity. “Because my husband here and I were thinking of the same thing–because we had some friends who lived in Forks–and they told of a horrific story of a teenage girl getting attacked by a serial rapist in front of her little sister at about the same time that Melanie here was born.”

I suddenly looked away, a pained expression in my face–not to mention my eyes.

“That was me.” I said quietly. Glancing back at the woman, I said a little louder, “that little girl was me.”

The woman looked stunned and the husband sickened to his stomach.

“Oh my god!” she squeaked. Grabbing my arm, she said hurriedly, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!”

I shook my head sadly. “No. It’s okay. I don’t talk about it much anymore.”

The woman still wore an expression of shock–which wore off as time passed.

“I can imagine why not. Anyway, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

I smiled gamely. “It’s quite okay. You didn’t know.” Looking down at the little girl, I asked, “So you want to be a student of the arts, huh?”

Suddenly taken aback by my directness, the 8-year-old ran around her mom’s legs and hid.

“She’s such a shy one.” The mother apologized. Looking behind her, she nudged her daughter.

“Go ahead and say hello to the nice lady.” She implored.

I waited out of respect, but the little girl refused to budge from her spot.

Rubbing the top of her daughter’s head in an affectionate/apologetic manner, the woman turned to me and said, “I’m sorry. She gets that way with strangers sometimes.”

“It’s a good defensive habit,” I said without question and calm. “To effectively hide from your enemy that is. It requires a lot of skill and courage.” I added, “one of my sensei’s said that.”

The husband looked me over and asked me a question.

“What rank are you–if I may ask?”

“I’m a sandan black belt in taekwondo. It’s known as a third-level black belt, a nidan–or second level–in karate, and I’m on a brown belt in Hapkido. I should be getting my red belt in a few months–then it’s a few years of training for my black-belt; first. I also have five years of special training left as a ninja to achieve the status of full master. shoji-mi is what I am now–since I‘ve only got four years under my belt.”

The man was intrigued.

“Only that amount in such a short time? I’m surprised you found a way to keep each discipline separate as you progressed. But why so much time on your ninja training?”

“Need more practice. But this wasn’t an easy thing to do.” I admitted with some laughter in my voice. “I kept showing up at Master Gunderson’s dojo still immersed in my karate when I should be doing my reps in taekwondo–at first. It’s a good thing he recognized what I was doing wrong–because some of his students thought I had gone nuts for the better part of the first week.”

“So did you start all three disciplines at once?” The man asked.

“Within a week of each other. My ninja training came much later.”

The woman was impressed–as a small smile graced her elegant mouth.

“For someone so young, I’m surprised that you could carry on that much discipline. I’ll bet you couldn’t resist trying out your skills on some of the school yard bullies after that.” She teased.

I shook my head in all seriousness.

“None of my classmates knew what I was up to for several hours after school–each day–and on the weekends. And I was taught not to use what I knew as a weapon against another human being; unless I was being directly threatened or acted upon in a threatening manner.”

“Good call.” The man said approvingly, while his wife looked like she was ready to fall apart.

“I didn’t mean it that way–!” she said quickly. “I just thought–?”

“It’s quite all right. Most of the classic responses from what people know about me usually tend towards the ‘outcast getting even with his tormentors.’ ” I replied with general ease.

“Have you…?” The woman began delicately. “Have you used your abilities to–?”

“Yes.” I said automatically. “On a few occasions I had to. But I was careful not to injure them too severely. Enough to knock them silly, but I haven’t had the need to go full out.”

“Not even once?” The man asked in all curiosity.

A brief image of Greg Pearson shot into my mind.

“Well…maybe once. But I was set upon by some of my schoolmates and a couple hall monitors–before I could…” I looked at the pair and for one moment, I was at a loss for words.

“You know. Beat him up.” I wanted to say my usual punch line, kick his ass up around his ears so he could hear me pound the living daylights out of him, but I was in the presence of young children.

And the last thing I wanted these two strangers hear come out of my mouth was something that only a ruly truck driver would say over the CB radio.

“Ah,” the woman said in clear understanding. “Boy troubles?”

My face suddenly exploded in a shade of hot pink at the mention of that.

“Um…hmm…” I muttered evasively, then reached back to scratch my neck. “Something like that.”

“A boy you didn’t…like?”

The woman’s husband chuckled at the sudden course change in conversation.

“Of course, honey. I recall you doing the same for me once–a long time ago–remember?”

“Yes, Jack. But John deserved it.” The woman reached out and patted him on the knee.

I spotted a vacant bench nearby and asked them if they had any objection to continuing the conversation over there. My legs were getting stiff from standing straight after–I happened to glance at the woman’s exposed watch–and found that the time was creeping up to five minutes before two.

They had none and we proceeded over. They took a seat while I put my laptop in my backpack and then hung it on the branch overhead–stretching out from a towering apple tree.

Some of the apples hung heavy as a result of a season’s worth of growth and I was tempted to pick one.

Just to satisfy my sudden hunger.

Later. I promised myself.

Bending down, I began to stretch my legs–one and then the other. I kept repeating myself for a few minutes until I had sufficiently worked out the tiredness and the kinks.

“There is a boy I like,” I told the woman in between reps–before stretching myself out like a crane and working on my lower back and arms.

“Is he cute?” Melanie suddenly piped up out of shyness. I looked and spotted her right next to me.

I blushed despite myself.

“Yes. He is.” Then I flashed her a devious smile of my own. “Are you interested?”

That did it and she ran back squealing in delight.

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. But it did have the intended effect on myself: I was becoming a little more open with people. Not that I had a problem with being social.

I was just a naturally private person. There were some things I would be willing to give up–seeing how they did little harm to myself–but not everything.

The mother laughed with me as well, while her husband–Jack–shared a smile. The boy sitting next to him was a complete recluse. Quiet and silent, tall and lanky, with a mop of luxurious blonde hair.

I was kind’ve envious of the way it rolled and flowed on its own–catching the light of day and splaying itself evenly around without so much effort on its own part.

He’s going towards breaking girl’s hearts when he gets older. I saw–a pang of jealousy ripping into my own.

Of course, he had nothing on Carl, but sometimes, it was astonishing how beauty could come to someone so young without even knowing it.

I recall my mom saying the same of me when I was younger. How I was a rarity and how I would turn boys’ heads as I got older.

She was right–to a degree. But I never saw myself as being the ‘unattainable girl’.

Not like some girls in my class.

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend just yet.” The older woman said. “But she does tease the boys mercilessly though on occasion.”

My smile stayed in place as I finished my stretching exercise.

I could feel the power and strength flow through my body–renewed–and I felt that I could face my mother again.

As we didn’t talk much on the way up to the hospital. The clinic in Forks wasn’t equipped to handle a problem such as my mom’s sprain–and the nearest county municipal was 45 miles away.

I wondered then if my mom knew how much money she was saving on gas–just by getting here.

“I did the same. Until–” and broke off; not wanting to revisit the past. My good cheer wavered a bit and my smile shattered.

“Until that day happened?” Jack inquired respectfully.

I nodded.

“And you lost your childhood because of that one incident.”

At that point, I was torn between anger and sudden misery.

I didn’t know what to say or think.

Only because I didn’t think it was the real truth.

I stared inconsolably at the ground beneath me–staring at the lush green grass, the grayish-white coloration of the clean-swept sidewalk–and the whisper of the winds through the soft apple grove in front and in back of me.

“I…” I began uncertainly. “I…”

I fell silent.

Nobody moved for a second as my mind went blank. I could not think past the rising turmoil inside of me.

W-was it true??? A challenging thought erupted inside of me like a hot flare. Was it true that I had wasted away my childhood because of this?!?

Raising my hand, I stared at it in complete shock. Every part of my hand, every dimple of the skin, every freckle which caked the back of my wrist…

I closed it reflexively–tightening it into a fist.

My eyes narrowed and my expression went grim and taunt.

“Hmph.” I bit out rudely, then stood up and grabbed my pack. “Thank you for your time. It is very…illuminating.”

I left behind shocked silence–and for a second, I thought about going back on bended knee and professing my ignorance and humility.

But these people were complete strangers. They deserved neither my pity nor my sympathy.

***

Jack watched the teenage girl go–completely beside himself.

“Well,” he said nonchalantly. “That certainly went well.”

His wife looked after the retreating back of the girl–her head shaking in sadness.

“She has a lot on her mind, dear. It’s to be expected–especially coming from someone like her.”

Jack leaned back on the bench and sighed. “For so much control, she certainly can be irritated rather easily.”

“Do you think it’s easy on her–going through what must seem like an eternity of conditioning, training, and intense mental focus–to blot out an event as traumatic as hers?” The woman ventured. “I don’t think so. She’s obviously going through a lot.”

“Still, Marsha…I don’t think it was our place to question her.”

“Look who’s talking, “Mr. I’m An Ex-Marine”.” Marsha jabbed back at her compactly built spouse.

Jack chuckled. “Every minute of it, I’m afraid. But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“My parents would’ve never put me through what her parents obviously did. I would’ve been told to confront my fears and move on with my life.”

The woman looked in the direction their mysterious visitor had gone.

“I don’t know. Considering what she had gone through, I’m certain that no amount of words would’ve been of much comfort for someone her age.”

Jack sighed. “And to think…we didn’t get a chance to know her name.”

“It’s not important.” Marsha decided with all finality.

Her husband nodded amicably. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

ZOMBIE NATION: OUTBREAK ZERO--CHAPTER 4

2010-04-14T11:37:00.000-07:00

11:26 A.M.

San Verso. Madre de Dios Region.

445 miles from Lima, Peru.

Doctor Robert Jordan was amazed by how fast the virus propagated on its own–in this saturated environment. He couldn’t quite explain how such a rhinovirus could metastasize so quickly in the human body.

Especially since it resembled the common cold. Or the Type I’s. Type II’s usually involved the coronavirus–the kind that sometimes spawned the lethal form of SARS; or Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome. The same type which spawned an outbreak five years ago in Asia.

But where did this new type of coronavirus come from? Jordan thought.

Having arrived here only seven months ago–him and his small team of medical researchers and doctors were on the trail of a rare and potentially deadly form of the SARS virus.

But since most of the reports had the disease contained to a large part of Asia–the man was most intrigued to discover how an isolated form of it found its way into South America.

From all of his research, Robert Jordan could only trace it to a Cambodian-registered freighter which had docked in the seaport of Callao in December of 2006–having a large shipment of silk and textiles on board.

But its cargo manifest also carried some exotic animals–including some Leatherback and Green turtles for a local aquarium in Lima–and what apparently were some rats–which had somehow got smuggled aboard the ship as someone’s idea of a pet.

Jordan checked into that–thinking that may be the source of the rhinovirus–but discovered that the animals in question were clean and disease-free.

Including the turtles.

Flipping through some of the paperwork collected so far, Jordan thumbed through a few pages of copied and stamped documents.

CDC manifests. Port-of-call registration and foreign passport papers, and a crew manifest.

Thirty-six crew on the Haing S. Ngor–named after a Cambodian-American doctor turned actor–whom once played a journalist in the movie The Killing Fields. (A movie based on the infamous Khmer Rouge regime.)

“Died in 1996...” the man murmured. “Murdered by a street gang in Los Angeles.” He had heard about that case in where some prosecutors had charged it was a politically motivated killing brought on by sympathizers of the Khmer Rouge regime.

The ship’s compliment included ten officers–all Cambodian decent.

But so far, nothing could link the rhinovirus to the freighter. The man had made discrete inquiries into the ship’s compliment–but they all came back as being in perfect health.

That could mean nothing. Jordan reasoned. Certain types of rhinoviruses had a habit of laying dormant in the human blood stream for awhile–incubating–before being triggered by an outside source or some kind of internal genetic defect; possibly linked with the human immune response system.

Of course, all of it was a theory–on the latter part. Being a viral pathologist meant spending months and sometimes years digging into newly found exotic viruses–those known to exist outside the human environment–and unraveling its delicate RNA makeup like a man searching for gold.

Medical technology and science was advancing faster than anything known to Man. But it still couldn’t hold a candle to something smaller than a period at the end of a sentence.

There were noticeable limitations to how far he could go on six months of research, reviews, and study.

And right now, I’ve hit a dead end. Jordan mused to himself–tearing his gaze away from his desk inside the makeshift medical barracks. His assistant, Doris Plante was several meters away–staring into a dish of cultured human nervous-system tissue–taken three days ago from one of the succumbing patients of this new and unusual cold virus outbreak.

“Crap.” Robert muttered softly, before picking up his mug of hot coffee and took a careful sip from it.

“Anything?” He said, once he finished.

The slim and attractive brunette at the other end raised her head, and shook it.

“No doctor. The tests haven’t revealed anything yet. All I’m seeing is the same nerve-ending inflammation as with the other 330 samples.” The woman spoke up from across the room.

Then she went back to what she was doing, adding with a small voice: “The same…myelin degradation?”

What the hell…? Robert breathed in absolute shock. “Doris: That’s not supposed to happen with a cold virus!” He bit out quickly–getting up out of his chair and crossing over to the microscope.

The woman was as puzzled as he was–moving out of the way so he could see what she was seeing.

Sure enough, the myelin sheaths protecting the nerve-endings were indeed disintegrating right before his very eyes.

Turning up the power on the portable electron-microscope–Jordan went 250 and zoomed in on the cell tissues making up the nerve-endings themselves.

Sure enough, he could see each one slowly losing color and cohesion. Like something was slowly tearing them apart from the cellular level and thus exposing the delicate nerve tissue underneath.

It was possible for the myelin sheaths to regenerate–given time–but this rhinovirus was attacking it too quickly for the nerves to sufficiently recover.

Looking up for a moment to refocus his eyes, Robert declared: “I was wrong. This isn’t a rhinovirus at all.”

“But Doctor! You said–?” Doris protested, but was cut off sharply.

“I know what I said earlier, Doris. But this type of rhinovirus isn’t a true cold virus at all. I mean look at what we’ve found thus far: This thing attacks the nerve endings of specific muscle groups–causing mass inflammation–and then proceeds to–” he stopped for a second and then looked into the world at the cellular level; continuing his dissertation.

“The way this thing acts, I’d swear that it is eating the myelin sheaths protecting the nerve-endings.”

“Eating?”

“Yes. Eating.”

“I didn’t think viruses could do that. I was taught that viruses invaded, infested, and replicated themselves using the antibodies own DNA as a template for survival and gestation?”

“In most cases, I won’t argue with you there, Doris. But this kind of virus not only imitates a common cold virus, but it deliberately goes after the nerve-endings first. Like it has its own agenda or something.”

The woman chuckled. “Doctor–you’re treating this whole situation as if this thing is alive somehow.”

“Well…it is a living organism. It is alive. It certainly wouldn’t be if it were dead.” Robert countered easily. “One of the first lessons we were all taught that in pathology school.”

“For standard rhinoviruses and other nasty little germs.”

“Yes.” Robert said–going back to his observation. The myelin surrounding this particular nerve-sheath sample had completely disintegrated–leaving the nerve exposed and vulnerable in the special nutrient fluid.

But nothing would harm it. At least not here.

You’re safe my tiny, little friend. The man sought to comfort the poor nerve. Nothing will come and hurt you.

“The myelin is gone.” He announced with dead calm.

The phone rang then and Doris went to pick it up.

“Yes, yes…” The woman was heard muttering into the receiver. “I see. I’m sorry. No. He’s a little bit busy right now. You want me to come–? No? Okay. No, you’re right. No sense in risking contamination. I understand. Thank you very much.” And hung up the phone.

“Robert.” His assistant spoke softly.

Turning, he looked at the woman. She looked devastated–even for a professional such as herself.

“Cassia died.”

“The mother with the twin girls?” The man spoke; horrified.

“The attending physician said that she was screaming in terrible pain for a minute and then suddenly…died without so much as a warning.”

Robert slammed a fist on a bare spot next to the electron-microscope.

“She was perfectly healthy–apart from the other 50 whom were sick! So why would she die?!”

“You know the attending physician said that her joints were stiff and her arms and legs were swollen–not to mention her neck. It’s possible that she somehow contracted this new virus–which in turn consumed all the myelin in her body and once the virus ran its course–there was nothing more that could’ve been done for her.” Doris surmised softly.

“It doesn’t make any damned sense!” The man seethed heavily. “This virus belongs in the same group class as the common cold rhinovirus–and yet it isn’t acting the same as its predecessors. So what the hell is it?”

“I can tell you what it isn’t.”

“What?”

“It’s not benevolent. I could swear that by the way it acts–it’s almost a predator in nature.”

“A predator…” Robert mused. “Going after one thing and one thing only–in order to ensure its most basic survival.”

Doris nodded. “And as a result, a human life is wasted away in the process.” She evaluated.

Robert leaned up against the desk and stewed for awhile–thinking.

“Tell Doctor Hatcheck to isolate the poor woman’s body–keep it contained in a different part of the mobile hospital.” He decided.

“No autopsy?”

“No. Definitely no autopsy. I don‘t want a chance that things could go wrong and the whole place gets infected–if this thing is airborne.”

“Sure thing, doctor.” Doris replied, before going back to her desk to make the call.

“And get a hold of someone at the CDC. Let them know that we have a lethal killer on our hands.”

“Yes, doctor. Anything else?”

Robert Jordan stared off into space and then looked at his own work station–his attention finally focusing on his mug.

“Some hot coffee would be nice.”

His assistant smiled. “How about some relaxing chi tea instead?”

“Sure.”

ZOMBIE NATION: OUTBREAK ZERO--CHAPTER 3

2008-08-16T18:39:00.000-07:00

September 19th, 2007.

The next day started out hellishly–to say the least.

One minute I was having some nice dreams and the next–?

I was getting the shit kicked out of me.

Literally.

I woke up to the stinging sensation across my check and my mom dragging off the bed by the hair–and throwing me onto the floor.

I ended up being slammed against my workstation in such a daze–I thought that for a second I was really sleeping!

And dreaming!

“Huh? Whaazaah?” I garbled out in a blinding daze before I saw a hand coming towards me in the blink of an eye.

Much faster, I intercepted the thrown punch and twisted the wrist around so sharply that I swore I heard a pop! ricocheted somewhere in my room.

Then I promptly shoved my assailant with the back of my left foot.

She, he, or it fell bodily against my bed and collapsed to the floor a second later.

“You bitch!” I heard my mom scream in pain. “You broke my goddamned wrist!”

I stared blankly from where I had landed and thought to myself: Oh my god! So this isn’t a dream after all?

It took me the longest second to realize that I was now awake in the real world and not so wrapped up in my dreams of the previous night.

Dreams that were so deliciously inviting as they were erotic.

And some of them involved Carl?

A girl can dream, can’t she?

“W-what?” I feigned immediate helplessness. “Mom?”

“You fucking…cunt!” My mom continued to hurl at me through gritted teeth–as she nursed her wounded wrist. Her clothes looked just as disheveled as they were from when I last saw her. But her long platinum-blonde hair looked like a positive mess.

Yech. I thought with distaste as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and yawned.

Not from disinterest mind you. I simply hadn’t woken up just yet. And there lay my mom–a victim of her own rage.

For a moment, I had forgotten the tender moment we shared together as she there like a drunken barge captain after his sixth day out on Neah Bay.

“Why are you screaming at me?” I asked with obvious bluntness. “And why the hell did you attack me out of a sound sleep?”

“You broke my wrist!” She howled at me with deafening loudness.

“I probably sprained it.” I said gruffly–before getting up and moving over to here.

My mom looked at me in absolute fear and she shrank back as far as she was able to go.

“Get away!” She bawled. “Don’t touch me dammit!”

I hung back just a second and looked at her.

“You know it’s a bad idea to attack me in my sleep mom. You know this.” I said with deliberate emphasis.

“I wish to God I had never told your father to enroll you in those self-defense classes as a little girl.” She sobbed. “I pray to God that I never wished I did that…”

I stared at her in complete bafflement. “And let what happened to my sister happen to me? Are you sure you want to go through that again?”

“I don’t care!” My mother yowled again like an injured cat. “You attacked me!”

“I stopped you from hitting me again, mother.” I firmly stated. “That’s a far cry from going full out.”

Fear replaced pain and my mother looked at me with dead eyes.

“You’re a danger to this household.” She accused me flat out.

I stared at her for the longest time imaginable before breaking out in laughter.

“To whom? Spaz?” I lightly joked. “Why would I be a danger to him?”

“I mean me, Emily Rose Jordan.” My mother countered with a hardened edge in her voice.

“You?” I exploded in stunned amazement. “Do you think that you’re the only one person in this house now–since dad left many months ago?” Reaching out to her, I gently extricated her injured arm from her good hand and examined it gently.

“Have you forgotten that I live here too?”

My mom hissed when I pressed down gently with a couple of probing fingers.

“Just as I thought: It’s just a sprain. Not a broken wrist.” I announced.

“I don’t care who is in this house, young lady. You are a threat to everyone who lives here.”

Letting go of my mom’s wrist, I sat back on my haunches and looked at her for a second.

“Give me a break, mother.” I admonished her. “You’re so clouded by your own rage and pain that you don’t know what you’re talking about. If it wasn’t for my prowess in my martial arts, I wouldn’t have been able to protect this house the way I could’ve from those three robbers last year. And you know this.”

My mother didn’t say a blessed word to me while I chewed her out soundly.

“The police didn’t seem to think so. They said what you did was dangerous.”

“And they were 15 minutes away, mom. Two of those bozos had guns and the third had you and dad tied up. What was I supposed to do? Stay hidden in that closet all this time?”

“Well…”

“When they searched the house, they found me.” I stretched my arms out invertedly and then proceeded to lightly crack my knuckles before finally shaking the strain out of both hands.

Flexing my fingers, I then dropped both hands into my lap and then looked at my mom with a certain level of gentleness.

“And I quickly dispatched the first one and dealt the second one with a side stand snap kick to the face.” I regaled to her with a certain fondness–feeling the rush of adrenaline inside of me.

“When the third guy came to check up on what was going on, I dropped quickly to the floor in a split, nailed him right in the groin, and then rose up smartly and did a perfectly executed judo throw right into my headboard over there.” I recalled the sound of wood splintering and watched as some of my prized possessions went flying–but nothing was more gratifying than witnessing the son of a bitch sag unconscious on my bed.

All in less than seven minutes.

By the time the cops arrived, I had finished dragging the idiots out of my room and untying both my mom and dad–with one of them waking up and writhing in pain from the cheap shot I delivered to the ball sack.

Anyone getting nailed there would want to be unconscious from the onset.

I was just glad I wasn’t a guy at that point.

I remember basking in the glow of my victory–while the police lieutenant on the scene questioned my parents and then me.

Of course, it wasn’t a planned strategy of attack–as I told them. I was just stumbled upon and then being led out of my room at gunpoint.

But each of my three sensei’s told me that the path to least resistance always ended with a solid victory.

Not just to beat the snot out of people, but to disarm a grave threat without leading to excessive violence.

So the best way to deal with the situation from the onset was to feign compliance and helplessness.

Something which a 14-year-old girl like me could do perfectly well without rousing too much suspicion. (I silently congratulated myself for being so devious that day–lemme tell you. It was one of my crowning achievements.)

I knew then that these cowards weren’t expecting that much of a fight from a teenager with two pistols pointed at her in defiance. But none of them knew that I was far from being defenseless.

I just had to choose my moment of attack.

And when I did–I only wished I had a camcorder to replay the look on the first guy’s face when I snapped around suddenly and grabbed the gun cleanly out of his hand. I then drop-kicked him right where he stood and then dropped to the floor on one hand and snap-kicked the other guy in the face with a perfectly executed side stand.

And the rest–as they say on the news–is history.

After telling that to the lieutenant, I couldn’t really tell if he believed me or not. By the way he was standing, his jaw would’ve had to be picked up off the floor. That much was a given.

Then–when he had sufficiently regained his wits–he began to chew me out for taken on such a dangerous chance with my life.

Especially since I could’ve gotten killed.

I didn’t see it that way. I told the irate man that I was only protecting my family and my home–which was much less afforded to my sister eight years previous when a serial rapist broke into our place of residence–and raped my then 15-year-old sister right before my terrified eyes.

Did you not think that we would take precautions against such future incidences? I countered angrily to the policeman.

He told me that a home-protection system would be far better suited to the job at hand–given the circumstances.

I glanced down at the three perps being attended to by the paramedics and questioned by a few of the cops in the process.

No home-protection system could’ve prevented this. I remember telling the man in question. No amount of home defense can permanently stop these crooks from getting what they came after. Sooner or later, they will succeed. And then what? Are you going to tell me that we should’ve been better prepared after all was said and done? Huh?

He looked at me with laughter in his eyes–probably thinking that I was either amusing to him or something worse. But I felt I was right in my argument.

No home was a man’s castle anymore–no amount of security could offer a safe haven from the criminal element. They were always the evolving rats of society. Always one step ahead of everyone else.

And you had to be ready.

He dropped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

“What you did was brazen–if not stupid. Try and not do that again.” he told me finally–leaving me shocked to the core.

I remember clenching my fists and praying to God that no one else tries anything remotely stupid in the future.

Because the perps weren’t going to be the only ones getting their asses kicked up around their ears.

***

“Still…” My mom’s voice echoed back to me–breaking me from my own personal reverie. “What you did was brave, but your latest actions leave me to wonder if you still pose a danger to me.”

It took me all but a second to contain my own personal astonishment at my mom’s statement.

I pointed a finger at her in anger then–all sense of proper mother/daughter decorum lost.

“You wanted me to train and become better able to defend myself–because of what happened with Tiffany. Remember? You held me in my arms after that serial rapist was caught by the police and sentenced to 47 years in jail for first-degree rape and other outstanding charges–including those from seven warrants in five other states.

“You told me: ‘Never again, sweetie. I want you to know that. I wasn’t able to do anything to protect both you and your sister.’ ” I looked at her–seeing the shock registering on her face.

“I didn’t think you would’ve remembered that. I thought you were too traumatized by that incident. Even the state psychologists and school councilors said you wouldn’t remember much of that terrible day.” She said.

I looked away from her and then down at the floor.

It took me awhile to find my voice. And my strength of will.

“I remember mom, because I wanted something by which to keep me focused and determined when you and dad enrolled me in those defense classes over in Port Angeles. I didn’t want to forget.” I said with a shaky voice filled with rage and raw anger.

“Tiffany was badly affected by that and she never had the chance at romance, mother. Never had a chance for a normal life or a halfway decent relationship with any boy at school. Because that bastard stole something more precious than a teenage girl’s virginity: Her fucking innocence.”

I stood up then and smoothed out the wrinkles in my pants and dusted myself off. My face still stung like hell, but I wasn’t about to let a little annoyance like a bruise get the best of me.

Even if it was delivered by my own mother.

I looked at the clock and found that the digital hands had read 9:16 in the morning. I went to bed right after I finished with some business in the kitchen–right before I dumped a fresh bag of beer cans into the recycle bin for the trash guys to come and collect.

I couldn’t even remember falling asleep after my head hit the pillow. But I knew that my mom was going to be pissed off more than a mother hen when she woke up from her siesta and found that her cherished stash of booze was gone from the fridge’s cold caress.

“I became what you wanted me to be mom: A cold and distant fighter. Someone who wasn’t going to back down from a situation like the one last year in our own house. And I gave those jerks what they deserved. Every second of it. I didn’t shrink from my duties as the oldest member of the house–seeing how Chuck had gone over to his friend’s house for the night and Tiff was still away at Florida State.” I said tightly–my voice trembling a little. “I embraced them–as any good daughter would.”

Kneeling down to her, I took a hold of her good arm and helped pull her up.

“The least you could do is be thankful that all those courses paid off in the end. Eight years of training not wasted because I believed in myself. Because you wanted some peace of mind that things like that serial rapist would think twice before tangling with people like me.”

My mom only looked at me in dead silence. I could sense that something was churning inside her.

“Tell me that I am wrong, mother. Tell me that what I did was wrong. Then you can disown me right here, right now, and I won’t protest one iota.”

My mother shook her head–torn between pain and love.

“I was never able to protect you like a good mother should, honey. That was my failure. And it is something I will have to live with for the rest of my life. But I could never disown you for being the person you’ve grown up to be, sweetie. That’s something I will never do.” She reached around to hug me–which caused me to jump a little.

“But you have to think more with a clear head instead of all this bottled rage inside you. It’s starting to tear you apart at the seams.”

I was still raw from our brief tussle. My nerves hadn’t quite settled down yet.

“Don’t worry,” I heard her say with a muffled voice. “I won’t hit you again.”

I settled my arm down around her shoulder and back and hugged her back with a grateful sigh.

“I know mom. I know. And I‘m not enraged. I‘m not out of control either. Sensei Masterson told me that anger can be turned inside out for something good. Not bad. And that is what I‘ve been doing. I‘m not using my knowledge for selfish means. Or to be a problem at school. I‘m doing what I‘ve been taught: Channeling my emotions, my anger, into something constructive.”

Mom didn’t say anything to be as we held each other for the longest while as mother and daughter.

I could imagine that time was passing us by like it always was.

There was a lot of things that I could remember in that time frame.

In the months ahead, these days will be the ones I will remember most of all: Because they represented happier times–despite the painful thorns embedded in them.

“I just wish you hadn’t dumped all of my beer out last night. I was looking forward to a cold one this morning.” My mother softly relented.

I sighed–finally understanding the angst behind my mom’s conniption fit.

“Mom. You really have to stop this. Before it destroys you in the end.” I told her under no uncertain terms.

“What I do with my life is of no concern to you.”

“It does if it’s destroying me, mother. And it is.” I countered flat out. “I can’t live like this with you around like that. I want you to stop and seek help. Professional help.”

There was no answer from my mom. Not right off the bat anyways. I could tell that she was thinking my proposal over inside her head. Just the way she held me, by the way her body tensed–I could tell she was thinking this one through.

A decision was to be made.

“It’s that bad?” She volunteered gamely to me.

“Yes, mom. It is. Will you consider what I said?”

“As soon as we go to the emergency room to have my wrist checked out.” My mom promised me–which made me hug her even more so.

Finally. Things were starting to look up.

For us all.

ZOMBIE NATION: OUTBREAK ZERO--CHAPTER 2

2008-08-16T17:40:00.000-07:00

I sat at the edge of my bed–shoes kicked off–with both feet dangling on the floor.

Headset cell in hand, I listened for the moment when my friend would pick up and the two of us could start talking away. Then I got down on the floor and began doing hand stands effortlessly.

I thought better if I did my nightly exercises.

Up and down I went with daring grace–listening to my soft grunts of exertion and the steady rush of blood in my ears.

Almost immediately, I fell into a trance–keeping a part of me focused, while the other listened to the other end of the still ringing headset.

What’s taking her so long? I asked myself–going thirty reps easily before executing a roll with no problem; using my elbows as a landing pad.

I sprung back up to my feet with no problem–and that’s when I heard the thing go directly to voice mail.

“Renee isn’t here at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep.” A tiny voice echoed inside my ear canal.

Beeping, I tapped a small button on the side of the headset and said, “Girlfriend, this is Emily Jordan. Pick up when you have spare moment. This is important.”

I let go of the button and sighed.

Nothing like going into battle with your tail tucked between your legs. I thought to myself as I crossed over to my bed and threw myself onto it.

Besides the computer, desk, and chair, all I had left to me was a clean room, a hard wood floor, and a bookcase for a headboard–with the twin bed seamlessly tucked right between the middle.

Oddly enough, the My Little Ponies pillow still retained enough of its luster and color to identify a cult icon so many years out of date.

But this was my sister’s. A small gag gift to me before she left for Florida State. A way of telling me that it was okay to be a girl and not a tough-acting tomboy. (A thing she accused me of being the majority of the time–out of personal concern that I had somehow lost my femininity.)

I chuckled at the memory–only three years old now.

As if!

“I can be a girl whenever I want to be, Tiff.” I told the pillow fondly. I poked a finger at the pillow. “I don’t need you to remind of that.”

Of course, it was hard enough to forget how many happy times we spent as a complete family. The days during Christmas, Easter, summer vacations…

They all seemed to have blurred together and faded away as the days got longer and the years flashed quickly by.

Was it because of my father’s work which split us apart? I found myself asking in silent debate. Was it because of him that we cast off our familial lines and went our own separate ways?

I loved my father so very much. I can’t tell you how much of a strong man he represented to me. He wasn’t like all those classic father figures of a man doting on his favorite daughter. But one which exuded a center of calm and strength which I had long since tried to emulate in my self-defense classes and tactical exercises.

Of course, I was never the perfect daughter. But I did try to remain a rock for my mother–after dad left nine months ago for that South American expedition.

I found myself becoming quickly ashamed of myself–for thinking the worst for my mother. No matter what, she didn’t deserve to have a quiet cast-iron bitch for a daughter.

I looked up and at the door which led into my small bedroom. It was mine by choice–because of how I saw my world. Always small, always spartan. Always devoid of one thing or another.

No matter what you thought of me, I never found myself wanting too much of everything. I was happy with the life I led.

I wish I could’ve said the same of my mom, Deidre Anne Jordan.

She was once a Wallingsford. But only when she met my father when they were both 17.

It was–as they say–love at first sight.

They got married in between 1982 and 1983. My sister was the first to be born in late ‘83 and then my brother six years later. I was born a late bloomer in 1992–and my wife swore to my dad “this is the last child we are having. You want anymore after [Emily Rose]–then you start doing the huffing and pushing.”

My father swore that this was the last beautiful angel that we were having as a family–and he meant it. I grew up in a well-connected and influential family circle–where (as my brother put it) hobnobbed with the best and the brightest.

Naturally, my father’s work carried him into the political circle–where he met every Northwestern and national politico you could imagine. Even scraped knuckles with two previous Presidents at a couple of fund-raising luncheons.

My upbringing was quick and smart. I made quite a few friends along the way–including some close childhood ones that I still maintain contact to even this day.

But I didn’t gain anyone’s trust through power, money, or influence. I had a hard enough time with my grades early on as it was.

There was no way that I could just buy my way through the state’s school system–just because you were one of the top ten richest families in Western Washington and the Puget Sound.

Thankfully, my mother and father both saw it my way when I remember telling them only a couple of years ago: “I’ll muddle through this somehow. I always have.”

Disappointment and failure was something I came to accept as a part of the learning experience. If you didn’t have either, you didn’t have anything to live for.

I wanted to chart my own course in life–without someone leading me by the hand every step of the way.

I know it was an odd thing to believe–given my age–but when you’re living in a fragmented family environment and you’re the only one around 24/7–?

You tend to grow up a lot faster than you normally should‘ve.

I started my reps again–more slowly this time–trying to wipe away the creeping feeling of indecision rising up inside me. I concentrated on the way my body moved–with each muscle rippling with both energy and strength.

Striving to give me what I wanted to attain for the next few minutes.

But halfway through, I wasn’t expecting the headset to ring inside my ears–throwing me off balance and onto the floor.

“Ow!” I grimaced, while rubbing the back of my head.

“Emmy? Are you home? This is Renee.” Came a familiar voice inside my ear–reverberating inside my head as well. “Hello? I got your message.”

“Give me a second.” I growled unintentionally.

“Bang your head again?”

“Yeah.” I muttered sheepishly, still massaging the offended spot at the top of my crown.

“Ya gotta stop doing that to yourself, girlfriend.” My friend teased. “You don’t want Carl to think you’ve gone soft in the head when you meet up with him next Monday–do you?”

I stopped rubbing and glared up at the white-matte ceiling of my bedroom. The one which was still covered (in one spot) in those glow-in-the-dark star decals which were more popular than ever.

“No.” I returned with a crimson blush to my cheeks. I felt my insides turn to mush at the thought of the older boy.

A sense of nervousness assailed me and I could feel my stomach fluttering a bit.

But I didn’t let my mutual embarrassment get the best of me. I got on all fours and then pushed up quickly–doing a full hand-stand and then holding it for a few more seconds before finding my center of gravity–and then continuing with what I was trying to finish.

My exercises.

“I don’t know why you do those odd exercises, Emmy. What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Balance and clarity.” I said with equal calmness–the moment of distraction over. I paused only for a full second and then resumed with what I was doing.

“You’re not spying on me, are you?” I asked, looking over at the computer–getting a mental image of my station–then turning and facing the floor.

The web-cam light wasn’t on.

“No, silly. I just know what you do at these times of night. Remember? You were doing your exercises over here a few times–like clockwork.”

“I’m no perfectionist.” I said in defense of myself.

“No. You’re not. But I know you.”

Another rising blush painted my cheeks and I felt my ears burn. Renee’s voice sounded so intimate to my ears–I forgot that the sixteen-year-old was sometimes an off and on mind reader.

But we grew up together since we were both three and four respectively–each of us a native of Forks. Renee was the kind of friend whom you could count on in the dark times–like now (I thought)–and extremely patient and understanding.

I had forgotten that some teenage relationships could also double up as surrogate mothers and councilors.

I certainly needed both–the way things were going.

“Yes. I suppose you do.” I quipped off hand–counting to the last rep and then gently rolling myself out so that I wouldn’t hurt myself again.

Standing up, I began some elaborate stretching exercises–giving each tired muscle group in my body my undivided attention. I didn’t do this quickly–because of a risk of injury.

“So what did you want to talk about? Your message sounded urgent.”

“I thought about coming over–to you know–visit?” I began lamely.

“Your mom’s drunk again, I take it?”

“Pretty much. I figured that she’s passed out by now.”

“On just one beer?”

“Yep. She has a low tolerance for alcohol. So it doesn’t take her much to get bombed.”

There was laughter on the other end of the line.

“What?”

“No, no, no. It’s nothing. I was just thinking how many beers it takes my mom to get wasted.”

“How many?” I asked off hand. Comparing our individual parents’ ability to get hammered wasn’t one of my favorite pastimes. In fact, I didn’t make a habit of discussing my mom’s inebriated state at all with anyone. Except Renee.

Made me feel like an open fifth wheel and a crutch.

But Renee had a way of coaxing what I didn’t want to talk about–because she was genuinely concerned about me. And for this, I was eternally grateful for her acts of kindness and respect.

“Seven is the new record.” I heard her chuckle with growing amusement.

“Can’t be too good for the liver.” I mused–finishing up with one routine and then starting another.

Once I was finished, I would begin my customary 300 pushups.

“My father joked that they can always get a transplant if needed.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Ha, ha.” I commented good-naturedly. “I’m sure Roselyn would be more appreciative of the fact that she will have a new organ to defile–once the operation is a success.”

“She says she looks forward to it. But she only drinks during parties and family get togethers.”
My nose wrinkled and then flared reflexively–as I recalled the last time my mom and I went to one of Renee’s family reunions.

“I know. I can still smell and taste all the beer on my breath–from the last one I attended.”

“You didn’t drink, did you?” Renee answered back; concerned.

I blanched immediately.

“Me? Hell no! Why would I want to do something like that?”

“Just checking. You were like a lioness when you went after Greg Pearson in the hall. I can‘t imagine how irate you really would be if you were stone-cold drunk and off your collective rocker.”

I shuddered out of sympathy for the teen. Though he was a school bully, I didn’t wish him ill will. I just wanted him to stop making me look like I was just a sex object for someone else’s affections.

“And you wouldn’t want to.” I said with unbridled conviction. And neither would I. I thought. I was easy to anger sometimes–but not often. It took a lot to piss me off.

I guess…

Investing a lot of emotional attachment for Carl really split me down the middle. Allowing me to drop my guard for that one moment.

“Well, it’s getting late. I’m going to call it a night, Emmy.”

That surprised me. It was only 7:15 in the evening–gauging by the time on my bed stand clock.

“So soon?” I asked with a note of incredulousness in my voice. “You don’t want me to come over?”

“Not tonight, girlfriend. I know you want to. And I want to. But I have a busy day tomorrow. School and all that.”

I smacked myself mentally upside the head.

I had forgotten!

“Shit.” I swore softly.

“It’s okay. You can come over tomorrow if you want.”

I ran a hand through my hair in absent anguish and worry.

“I dunno. It depends on what mom wants. I told her I was getting a breath of fresh air, but if I tell her that I didn’t feel like it–and went to bed instead–?”

“Your mom is pretty accommodating–despite her perchance for booze and soaps–”

“–and Dr. Phil.” I interjected with a shudder. I would rather watch Teletubbies on PBS than that guy. He reminded me too much of another male councilor at school who looked like a throwback from the 60s–whose only goal in life was to make people get all soft inside by getting in touch with their “inner feelings”.

I did a full body shiver with that thought in mind.

“Your mom watches Dr. Phil?”

“Yeah.” I said grudgingly.

“Don’t feel so bad. Mine still watches Judge Judy and Tyra.”

I groaned inwardly. Didn’t adults these days watch anything worth while anymore–like TLC or the Discovery Channel?

Even the Cartoon Network was better compared to these other shows!

“I gotta go. Mom’s calling me for something. Call me tomorrow?”

I stared blankly at the wall across from me–staring into the poster of Kevin Federline.

“Yeah.” I mumbled to myself. “I’ll call you.”

“Take it easy, Emmy. Things have a habit of working out in the end. At least–that’s what my mom keeps telling me. It’s not the end of the world you know.”

Not yet. I thought to myself–never imagining how real those words would be in the coming months.

The link died then and I removed the headset from my ear and placed it on the computer workstation.

Then I went back to my stretching exercises and finished the last one in no time flat.

Afterwards, I spent the next half hour or so doing pushups with one hand and then the other–using only my upper body strength as a source of stability and power.

My arms rarely got tired after doing this for the last couple of years.

Finally, I went outside and checked to see how things were.

Spaz meowed quietly for attention–and I gave it to him without shame–and went into the kitchen for some Meow Mix packets of cat food.

Selecting a Chicken and Gravy one, I opened it up and dumped the contents into his white cat dish. His water dish looked terrible, so I changed it and set it down–quietly calling for him.

“Spaz-ma-taz…dinner…”

Spaz came trotting in with his tail high up in the air and a relaxed body posture.

“Feeding time for you, monster butt.” I said with affection–reaching out to pet him a few times. Cats these days were very finicky with their choice of food. But they were also sometimes skittish before they settled down to eat.

Just getting them to eat took on a whole new dimension. I found that rubbing my cat’s ears and stroking his back once or twice was enough to settle him in.

I could hear Spaz’s motor running on his own as he dug in happily–leaving me to wonder what my mom was doing.

Was she still passed out in a drunken stupor?

Getting up off my knees, I rose and checked around the kitchen–to make sure that everything was still in place and nothing looked disturbed.

I then went to check the windows and sliders to make sure that everything was locked and the lights were off on the back porch leading into the yard.

Darkness had certainly creeped up without warning–casting everything in a decidingly ominous pall.

I shut the blinds against any impending nightmarish apparition that could still hit me without warning. I never much liked the darkness–or being out there after the sun set for that matter.

Something about it unnerved me.

Quiet descended down around myself, and I took great comfort in that. A sense of heightened awareness, strength, and determination filled me as I went into the living room–stealthily as my cat would without making so much as a sound.

Even in the darkness–and with the 42” HDD-TV flat screen blaring harsh images and some sound in the background–I found my mom passed out in the recliner chair.

Languishing in a position similar to that of a dead corpse.

Immediately, my heart filled with sympathy and pity–my mind falling back to what I had felt as loss and remorse for how I secretly treated her.

I shook my head with a sigh, muttering, “Oh mom…” with pursed lips.

The can had fallen–gratefully empty–to this part of the hardwood floor. The rest of the carpet area appeared untouched.

Some of the beer had spilled out upon impact, but it was nothing that I couldn’t clean up on my own.

I left to get some paper towels and came back–wiping it up.

Somehow, my actions woke up mom–and she slurred out, “Your…sush a could curl…”

Embarrassment filled me, and so did the tears welling in my eyes–upon hearing her alcohol-laced words of love for me.

“I know mom.” I said with foreknowledge and patience.

“You…must…hate shmee.” She continued on. “Thinking…that I…am such a bitch.”

“No mom.” I said with surprising honesty. “I don’t hate you. I just hate what you’re doing to yourself.”

There was no response then–as I finished wiping and crumpled the used piece of paper towel. I set it down and looked up–expecting to stare into the glassy brown eyes of a woman whom gave birth to me so many years ago.

They were there, but so unfocused!

“Mom?” I asked, suddenly alarmed.

Gratefully, they moved on their own–as a part of her was aroused by the sound of my voice.

“W-what…?” She stammered. “What do you…want?”

“Did you hear me?” I asked–straight out of concern.

“Heard…what?” The woman asked.

“Me talking.” I stated flatly. My own anger started to bubble up–as the moment of reconciliation came and went. Now it was down to battle.

A verbal sparring match between me and my drunken mother.

Whether it was by the grace of God or something else, my mother didn’t so much as put up a struggle with me tonight.

She stared at me blankly and then shook her head.

“No. I’m sorry honey. My head…” she moved a hand towards it–as if to support the heaviest thing perched on the human body. “I wasn’t paying that much attention.”

“S’okay.” I quickly amended–not wanting to fight tonight. Tomorrow was going to be a big day and I needed my rest as well.

Not to mention my wits.

“I’m going to put you to bed right now–if you feel up to it. Or would you prefer that I bring you a pillow and blanket?”

My mom leaned back in her recliner and deflated right then and there with a punctuating sigh.

“It’s so…comfortable and warm here.”

I rolled my eyes in silent annoyance.

Pillow and blanket it is. Came the unanimous decision.

Thank god this wasn’t a real democracy. Otherwise, I would’ve lost a long time ago.

I left my mom again and retreated into her bedroom to pull the queen-sized blanket off the top of the bed and snag her ergonomically-correct pillow.

This was one of those foam pillows you saw on TV which conformed to your head and neck– supposedly supporting your spine.

A fun thing to have–if your body wasn’t the shape of a plump marshmallow.

My mom had gained a lot of weight through years of inactivity, borderline diabetes and what the doctors called an overactive thyroid problem–easily managed by drugs.

Through my persistence, I managed to get her on a modest exercise regimen and daily walks around the neighborhood.

But lately, that’s been slipping.

Alcohol had become her only friend these days–and I was very tempted to throw out her booze.

If only for her sake.

As I made my way back to the living room, I found myself seriously contemplating the act. It may be a couple of Grants down the drain, but it was better than watching her succumb to her own personal demons.

Propping my mother up, I placed the pillow underneath her head–making sure that she would fit inside it comfortably–and then placed the comforter over her.

“Tomorrow begins a new day for the both of us.” I told her in my most commanding voice imaginable.

My mother just looked at me with a blank stare–as I finished bedding her down for the night.

“That’s nice…dear.”

Anger flashed in my eyes.

“No mom. It’s not nice. I’m dead serious. Tomorrow, you and I are going to have a little talk. But for now, I want you to sleep this off.”

For a second, reality came crashing down on her–as she suddenly realized that her youngest daughter had just given her that “lecture”.

The kind she always delivered on occasion when any of them would step out of line.

“When did you…?” she began to say, but I cut her off right then and there.

“–when you stopped assuming full responsibility for your own life and your own actions: That’s when.”

“But–”

I planted my foot down.

“No ‘buts’ mom. I’m doing this for your own good. And because I can’t stand to live like this with you around. It‘s tearing me apart.”

“I’m…sorry.” My mother bit out with sorrow.

I had seen this act one too many times in my life and I wasn’t going to fall for it. Not here. Not now.

“Sorry’s not good enough.” I told her. “But actions speak louder than words–which is something we will be discussing when I wake up tomorrow. And when you‘re in a sober mood.”

I kissed her lightly on the forehead and left her where she was–a prisoner of her own selfish desires.

ZOMBIE NATION: OUTBREAK ZERO--CHAPTER 1

2008-08-16T15:47:00.000-07:00

September 18th, 2007

If I had known that my world was going to be ending rather quick–say in the next six months–I would’ve had the common sense to prepare for the inevitable. But as far as teenagers went these days, I can’t say that I was at all surprised by my lack of priority.

I was as dumb as a fence post when it came to instinct and survival.

Not that I wasn’t bright or well-educated. I still had my wits about me–for a 15-year-old girl anyway–I still knew what two plus two meant, but I really didn’t like the fact that my mom spent all day on her fat ass watching Dr. Phil reruns and soaps and then bawling her head off with a year’s supply worth of Kleenex at her beck and call. (I think Wal-Mart loves her for the fact that she keeps dropping a bundle over at the local “super mart” every few months or so–stocking up on these things. Thank god for recycling.)

Y’know?

Fortunately for me, I had my own room, my own computer and laptop–all without that nightmarish Vista program to contend with. (Did Bill Gates ever think to work out the bugs prior to putting out the system‘s newest operating system for Windows? All it made me think of was Windows Millennium.)

And let’s not forget the internet.

Comcast DSL works wonders when you don’t have to deal with dial-up.

I checked the news briefs on Yahoo!’s main page and surmised everything in one sentence:

The world was slowly going to hell in a hand basket.

Typical and blunt.

George Bush’s little war venture in Iraq was going badly–despite his and Petraeus’s little rosy reports on how swell things were going–and the nation itself was still deeply divided over whether we should pull out of Iraq (“and let the terrorists win”–as most of his brain-washed minions contend), or we should stay pat for the next decade or so; and let our fragged military get slowly eaten away by a well-funded and well-armed Iraqi insurgency. (Did anyone stop to think that Saudi Arabia had a clear hand in this mess? No.)

Not to mention a US-installed puppet government now aligned with Iran.

The economy was still firing on all cylinders (depending on whom you asked), but the housing market was going downhill mighty fast. The Fed stepped in to cut the interest rate by 50 base points, but I had this gut feeling it was too little, too late, to do much of anything.

Everyone was feeling the effects of the melting housing market–and a recession wasn’t too far off.

Of course, food prices were getting out of hand–even on our modest budget–and so was gas.

Mom had to grudgingly trade in her gas guzzler SUV for a Prius not too long ago–even though I had my eyes on Chevy’s new concept car–the Volt–and was bemoaning to me off and on for the last year that she couldn’t fit herself into the smallish driver side seat.

(I smiled–thinking that Honda Prius’s weren’t made for people of the Hungry, Hungry, Hippo variety.)

So what does the end of the world have to do with me giving a blow-by-blow account of current events and what‘s going on at home?

Plenty. But I’ll get to that in a second. I still haven’t introduced to you of who I am.

As I said, I’m a pretty smart girl. I’m not a bookwork or a geek by most kids’ standards these days–but I am not squeamish about my intelligence quotient either.

I like being smart. And crafty. And creative. And…?

Well, you get the idea.

Some boys like me–and I do have a crush on one of them–and am not majorly disliked by the girls in my class. I have a modest bust size–but nothing in the Barbie category (thank god!)–have some good looks that make me attractive enough to the opposite sex, but not a double threat girl to the cheerleaders at school. (Couldn’t stand being one of those bimbos with the revealing dress outfit anyway–not with every testosterone-filled guy staring at you from the sidelines just wanting to get into your panties. I am a girl after all. And I do have my dignity to uphold thank you very much!)

I sound plain, don’t I? I guess I do.

A girl with granny glasses and blue eyes, sporting nice long brown hair…

Yep. That’s me. Plain old Emily Rose Jordan. (Not to be confused with Robert Jordan–the author. Even though my father is also a Robert. We’re not related by a long shot. So stop asking me! My dad’s about 16 years younger than the author of The Wheel of Time. However, it was very heart-breaking to hear that he had died yesterday at such a young age. I am a major fan of his books and have my own off and on fan club on the internet!)

I also dabble in writing–which I see myself becoming a great author someday–but for now, I just write because it gives me a sense of escapism from the grind of an alcoholic mother and an absent father.

I feel like an orphan at times–even with a family such as this. You know?

I don’t have any siblings to speak of–at least the ones that don’t live with me at any rate.

My next to oldest brother, Charles Erickson Jordan, went to boot camp over at Fort Lewis a few months ago–after signing up out of high school last year–and I hear he’s having a great time; despite the sobering fact that he may be shipped to fight in Iraq–like everyone else. (Could explain my mom’s ongoing alcohol problem. She really never stopped after losing both her mom and dad to that accident involving a cruise ship sinking in Greece earlier this year.)

Tiffany’s down in Florida State getting her degree in biology and viral pathology. (Study of viruses and diseases which are sometimes not normal to the human condition. I know the basics of what my dad and oldest sister are doing.)

Last I heard, she was close to graduating. Next year, she keeps telling me in these e-mails and letters.

Next year.

Dad rarely e-mails and he’s not much of a letter writer. He left for South America seven months or so ago on an expedition studying a local village near Lima, Peru–when some kind of a new virus cropped up.

Something which resembled the common cold–but was having a devastating effect on the human immune system.

I recalled my dad’s last e-mail–when he told me the particulars of the virus’s odd rhinovirus composition and how it attacked the body’s ability to make simple antibodies to fight off infection from within the body. And not just outside either.

I shuddered at the image of someone getting a cold and not being able to fight it off because their immune system was horribly compromised.

Reminded me of that bubble boy incident back in the 70s. Where that boy named David spent his entire life inside the protective confines of a plastic enclosed world.

And that’s when I clicked on my Yahoo! e-mail account.

I had only recently signed up for any alerts relating to South America, Lima, or Peru–in particular–and I had gotten quite a few of them.

Especially the e-mails regarding the quake which ravaged thousands in the country’s capital.

Aside from the usual group e-mails from my writer’s group (I was teenagerosegirl in my handles), some elaborate phishing scams from Nigeria, and some other sex enhancement ads (where do these sickos come from?), I found what I was looking for and clicked on the Alert link–which told me something had come in–according to my interests.

I opened up a new window and read the article posted on the web:

Mystery illness strikes after meteorite hits Peruvian village

LIMA (AFP) - Villagers in southern Peru were struck by a mysterious illness after a meteorite made a fiery crash to Earth in their area, regional authorities said Monday.

Around midday Saturday, villagers were startled by an explosion and a fireball that many were convinced was an airplane crashing near their remote village, located in the high Andes department of Puno in the Desaguadero region, near the border with Bolivia.

Residents complained of headaches and vomiting brought on by a "strange odor," local health department official Jorge Lopez told Peruvian radio RPP.

Seven policemen who went to check on the reports also became ill and had to be given oxygen before being hospitalized, Lopez said.

Rescue teams and experts were dispatched to the scene, where the meteorite left a 100-foot-wide (30-meter-wide) and 20-foot-deep (six-meter-deep) crater, said local official Marco Limache.

"Boiling water started coming out of the crater and particles of rock and cinders were found nearby. Residents are very concerned," he said.

I quickly copied the article, and composed an e-mail to my father:

Dad?

Here is something I found in my inbox–which may spark your interest.

(See below)

Love your little girl,

Emmy

I copied the article into the body of my e-mail and then checked it over with a careful eye.

Satisfied that everything was in order, I clicked “Send” and then logged off for a second–intent on taking a much needed break from my online browsing.

Just right then and there, I heard: “Emmy, dear? Would you be a sweetheart and get mommy a beer from the fridge?”

I sat there at my computer desk and stewed.

For the love of God! I thought with stark annoyance. Doesn’t she ever stop drinking? Geez Louise!

I got up anyways–pushing back my office chair in the process–seeing how I had no choice in the matter.

Dr. Phil was over and the last of Guiding Light was just finishing–judging by a quick glance at the clock sitting perched next to my bed.

Since being grounded, the afternoons dragged on more slowly than normal. I could now count just when one of my mom’s shows ended and the other began.

It was annoying as hell.

“Coming.” I said with a measure of outright futility in my voice–passing by a glass case holding my personal collection of swords, knives, several small and large locked boxes–plus a really cool ninja outfit.

A gift from my father only last year–when he went to Japan on a sabbatical away from his work.

He knew that I had a love for anything Japanese and knew of my martial arts prowess. So this became a late birthday gift–as customary of him. Not that I really minded.

My father was more absent from the house than I cared to admit.

Staring at the glossy black and blue outfit, I wondered when we would become a family again.

I sighed deeply and silently.

Leaving my room, I padded my way down the hallway. The world outside one of the bay windows showed it to be dark and gloomy. (A typical Western Washington day for here at Forks and nearby Port Angeles.)

Rain had been forecast to fall tomorrow too.

I wondered then if this just enhanced my mother’s perchance for liquor and booze.

I gave Spaz a quick rub on the ears as I passed the ledge–our calico’s favorite resting place–and vanished into the kitchen.

Opening the door to the fridge, I grabbed a cold can of Bud Light from the bottom of the shelf–in one of those specially designed “refrigerator cases”–and closed the door.

“Is Light fine, mom?” I asked with clear disdain in my voice. 38-years-old and my mother was already seeking to destroy herself through the abuses of alcohol.

Naturally, my mother never hit onto the fact that I was against her doing this to herself–even though I tried to breach the subject of her drinking quite delicately on a number of occasions.

But what could I do?

The death of her parents hit her quite hard. I was just glad she didn’t resort to drugs and needles–especially considering what we made as a family–through my father’s spacious income.

“Just get it in here and quit screwing around!” Was the timely response from the living room.

Yeee~ow!

I learned awhile back not to argue with my mother when it came to her beer.

Just give it to her and get the heck out of Forks. The phrase echoed into my head–as I meekly walked in and handed it to her without looking.

“Here.” I mumbled from the corner of my mouth–waiting for her equally cold hands to grab the tallish alcohol grenade from my warm grip.

She did and no word of thanks ever uttered from her mouth. Just a pile of used Kleenex and puffy eyes to greet me in return.

My life sucked. Plainly and without abandon. I wanted to die.

“I’m going to Renee’s place. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” I said with a depressed air.

Nothing. Not a word from my mother–as it always had been between her and me for these last several months.

I turned and sauntered off towards my room–intent on packing a few things in my pack and walking over to my friend’s place.

At least there, I would find solace in her warmth and cheeriness.

And not this death warmed over bullshit coming from my neck of the woods.

“Did you do your homework young lady?” My mother bit out.

I stopped and sighed. “Yes, mother. I did it a few hours ago.”

I heard her take a long pull from the can–a noisy slurp. The kind you only hear about inside of bars, pubs, and yes…

School cafeterias.

Did I forget to mention that none of the kids at my school had table manners to speak of in this day and age?

It was: Belch, belch, belch. Fart, fart, fart.

And every one of them attacking their food like it was a feeding frenzy at the local pig farm–like some of the ones found in Anacortes.

Three seconds passed as I waited impatiently for my mother to finish. As much as I loved her, I had no respect for her at all.

Not since she decided to go down this path of personal self-destruction.

A loud swallow followed by an obscenely loud belch.

The sound pained me deeply.

Shit…mom! Why do you do have to do this to yourself? Why??? I found myself asking.

Thankfully, the high-backed recliner masked her body and slowly aging profile.

“It’s your damned fault that you were suspended last week for picking a fight with that other boy.” Was all she said to me.

“Yes mom.” I muttered stonily–my mind instantly retroing back to that moment.

The ass had it coming of course. Only because he called me Carl’s “melon-chested whore”. (He was the tall and handsome boy that I liked. And only a couple of years older than me. Whether or not he knew I existed was besides the point. I just took personal solace that my feelings were genuine and for someone else that I deeply cared about–even if he didn‘t acknowledge them in return.)

I had nailed my offender with a sharp jab to the throat–and then concussed him upside the head with a return strike. Only then, had I started to fall back into my own personal attack mode–and would’ve gone for more than just blood–had not a couple of hall monitors and two students jumped me from behind–wrestling and then pinning me to the side of the locker area towards the end.

Greg had it coming and he knew it. He just said that at the end of third period to righteously piss me off.

Of course, the stunt landed me with a week’s suspension and a mark on my otherwise perfect attendance and behavioral record.

But up to that point, I didn’t care.

I just wanted to break the tedium of the day by kicking his ass up around his ears.

If only for a moment.

“Can I go?”

“Go?” The woman said stiffly. “I thought I had grounded you for a month–following the fight.”

My shoulders sagged then.

“Mother…” I started to protest then. But she wouldn’t have any of it.

“Now young lady.” My mom’s cross voice commanded sharply. “Do as I say. And no talking back. You hear?”

I blew out my breath in quiet frustration.

Dammit…I thought to myself. Then thought of a way out of this boring imprisonment.

“Can I at least go out into the backyard and get some much needed fresh air then–before you have me hog-tied to my bed?”

Mom knew that the place was walled off by a twelve-foot fence. And since I was 5”7 and weighed in at 120 pounds (some fat in the middle, but I didn‘t care. Perfection stunk in my opinion), she must’ve figured that I couldn’t scale it–let alone jump it.

“Fine. But I want you back in here before it gets dark.”

My eyebrows raised all by themselves. So far, so good.

Mom would be passed out in twenty minutes anyway. One beer was good enough to knock her out on her ass. And she would be snoring away before anything else could possibly interrupt.

“Thanks mom.” I said with sincere gratitude.

“Ehhh…” She muttered before taking another draw. “Go before I change my mind.”

I left quickly–a plan already forming inside my head.

SERIES OUTLINE.

2008-08-16T14:49:00.000-07:00

Series overlay:

Zombie Nation: Outbreak Zero is a unique take on the zombie lore. We all know what we love, hate, and fear about the undead--so I thought (last year) I would give it a whirl and see what I could come up with by myself. :0)

This time, I forgave the usual platform themes involving the undead and decided to bend and twist things around a bit.

I took a classic virus element and molded that around the real-time environment which we all currently live in--but told the story in the first-person viewpoint of a tormented 15-year-old girl: one whom is dealing with the fallout surrounding the death of her grandparents, and her alcoholic mother. (Not to mention the keen absence of her father whom is presently stuck in South America looking into that said virus brought on by a mysterious meteor impact which actually happened last year. I just decided to make that element the prime culprit of the ongoing storyline and a key villain in the demise of the human race as we know it.)

_______________________________

Zombie Nation: Outbreak Zero synopsis
______________________________

Emily Rose Jordan is not your average teenage girl. She was born in Forks, Washington--into a wealthy and well-to-do family with plenty of local and political influence. But she's also one troubled teenager with some pretty advanced martial arts skills in three fighting styles.

So you can imagine that this heroine of mine has a lot of things to work out and only 6 months to do it in--before the world (as she knows it) becomes a smorgasbord for a bunch of out-of-control and hungry zombies.

But before you get hung up on the idea that these zombies are somehow a rip-off the usual fare typically seen a George Romero flick, just be warned that the effects of that meteor impact and virus is going to have some rather...changing effects on what we would know as a flesh-eating ghoul.

Effects which will sorely test Emily's skills as a clandestine ninja and her fight for basic human survival.

The other books in the series are as follows:

ZOMBIE NATION: SURVIVAL OF THE FLESH
ZOMBIE NATION: FAREWELL TO THE FLESH
ZOMBIE NATION: THE DEAD AND THE RAW
ZOMBIE NATION: RED DAWN

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION.

2008-08-16T14:38:00.000-07:00

Zombie Nation: Outbreak Zero is rated PG-13 and up--as it contains some language, suggestive themes, and intense ninja-girl action.

As such, this novel shouldn't be read by anyone under the age of 15.

All characters portrayed are of legal consent. No minors were used in the construction of this book. No real people were actually killed in the making of this five-book series. No zombies were ever really found and modeled after either.

So the real world as we know it still exists.

All events portrayed are based on a mix of real-time and fictional data, and shouldn't be taken out of context in any sense of the word.

Enjoy!

Copyright: 2007 by Schuyler Thorpe