| With a fire burning in the street below his apartment, at least twenty abandoned vehicles in the road, and something he fervently prayed was not a corpse just barely in view, Davis began the weekend by again turning on the news. The quarantine had been effective, to some extent. No cases of the disease had been reported outside of the quarantined area…although by this point no one could claim to be anywhere near certain. The number of recorded cases had jumped to over 720, and it was anyone’s guess how many more cases were not yet known. Meanwhile, police were using tear gas and riot tactics to enforce the quarantine, which was about to break. At this point Davis wisely decided that it was time to get out of the city. Outside of his apartment, the street was almost empty in a strange juxtaposition from the previous day’s fevered exodus. He walked to his apartment’s parking lot and dreaded what he saw. His car, while structurally intact, was inoperable, all four wheels had been stolen, and the hood was propped open, he didn’t even want to bother to see what parts had been borrowed by looters. The panicked citizens fleeing the city had not let simple property ownership rules stop their made dash to freedom. So Davis, in some sad display of optimism did the only thing he could: he started walking. His apartment was only a few miles from the interstate; at a good pace, he reasoned he could make it out of town by dark. An hour had passed. He didn’t know where he was in town, just that he was on the way out. When he was across the street from a Radio Shack, Davis heard a scream. He stopped walking. It is admirable to think that, even in the midst of a full-blown crisis, in a situation that if not hopeless was certainly the next best thing, a man is able to ignore or deny the grave and imminent threat to his life out of concern for another. When Davis heard the scream he turned and looked inside the store from which it came. Inside the Radio Shack he saw three figures. Crossing the street he shouted. “Hey! What’s going on?!” They people inside ignored him. He reached the doorway. “Hey!” Then they turned, and Davis nearly screamed himself. The three occupants of the Radio Shack were barely human. The disease had rendered them into near zombies; the infected man he had seen the day before was nothing in comparison. Their sallow sagging flesh and stringy filthy hair, the open sores and bloody patches covering their faces, the stench of vomit – Davis stepped back in abject terror. Distracted from their victim, the zombies took an interest in the newcomer and began shambling toward him. “Stay back!” Shouted Davis. “Get away!” The zombies came closer; one of them had blood on its mouth. He glanced down the street – a police car! Halfway down the block, it was parked by a dollar theater. Davis ran to it and looked inside…no one there. “Cop!” he shouted, trying to rouse the car’s owner, “hey cop!” The zombies were still approaching. The car door was locked but inside Davis saw a shotgun. In the most illegal act of his adult life, Davis picked up a cinderblock lying nearby and smashed the windshield of the cop car. It took several swings. He reached in and pulled out the shotgun. |