Viruses

“Matt? Are they all gone?”
“No, Chris. You know they’ll never be gone.”
“I’m tired.”
“Go to sleep. I’ll make sure they don’t get you.”
My brother. He’s only six years old and doesn’t understand. Hell, I’m only nineteen and I barely understand. All I know is- you shoot and ask questions later. This isn’t the apocalypse. This is science gone wrong.
Only three months ago did the problem start. I remember sitting online reading about the new technology that was being tested. A technology that would allow humans to live forever.
“Did you hear that Matt?”
“No, Chris. I heard nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Tiny robots that acted like cells, but better. They’d go through your veins and clean out the bad cholesterol. They’d locate themselves where pain was and begin work on rebuilding whatever was broken. Your skin never got wrinkled. Your hair never got gray. It was a miracle breakthrough that everyone was going to live forever.
They made laws on how many people could be born. They relegated who could live and who could die. Right wing religious people didn’t want to live forever and refused the technology.
“There’s a rustling outside.”
“No there isn’t.”
Atheists jumped on the opportunity. Older people took it to look younger, and boy did they. You couldn’t tell my grandma was in her eighties afterwards. Most people looked like they were in their twenties or younger.
The whole world was just full of people in their twenties.
“I can’t sleep. I’m too hungry.”
“I’m hungry too. We’ll find something in the morning to eat.”
Gun violence became pointless. The body could anticipate where the bullet was going to hit and rebuild before the person was dead. They’d shield the bullet. Not to say that people didn’t die from guns- it was just less people. A gun to the head still meant you were dead. The brain was one of the few things that couldn’t be saved fast enough.
And a direct hit to the heart, you may come back to life. But it was unlikely. The technology just wasn’t fast enough to heal the heart like that.
And multiple wounds? You’re dead on the spot.
“I miss mom and dad.”
“Me too. But I’m sure they’re fine.”
“You think they’re alive?”
“I’m sure they are. And if not, then they’re with God and He’s taking care of them.”
But this was years ago. Three months ago is when the problem started. You see, what we didn’t realize was that robots are computers. And computers can get viruses. And viruses, well, they basically fuck you up really well.
And, if you didn’t guess it, someone made a virus. A religious nut that wanted people to die for using the tech. No one knows who it was, but he transferred it to a huge amount of people with some Bluetooth and hacks. A whole coffee shop just wound up dead on the floor. The robots destroying the people’s insides.
“How many more bullets do we have left?”
“Enough.”
And then someone else in France copied him. Walked right up to the Eiffel Tower and turned the thing on. Just walked away. It was the new form of terrorism. And it was easy.
But then some smartass in the government wanted to control criminals on death row by remote. So they made a virus and gave it to this serial killer. And guess what happened to him? He goes fucking crazy. The virus fucks up his ability to think. He attacks everything, bites the nurse who gave him the shot.
And then she gets infected with the virus and she starts going crazy and kills the serial killer and everyone in the room. And then starts to go on this rampage. Some religious nut gets a hold of the virus three months ago and spreads it downtown New York City.
“Enough to kill a hundred zombies?”
“They aren’t zombies. They’re just infected.”
And then we all became fucked. Even the religious nuts got fucked because they didn’t realize the infected people would just kill them by beating the shit out of ‘em.
“Mom and dad weren’t infected.”
“No. And neither are we.”
“I’m scared.”
“Me too, bud.”
And this is my apocalypse. Three months ago my family was fine. Now it’s just Chris and me, sitting in this basement, holding a shotgun and hoping for survival.
I know what you’re thinking- zombie movie. No. This is not a zombie movie. You see, zombies have traits that these virus infected people don’t have.
“Are you sure you didn’t hear the rustling outside?”
“I’m positive.”
First, zombies have a craving for human flesh. These people have a desire to destroy anything.
Zombies don’t attack each other. These people will attack anything. If there was a cute puppy out there it would be dead. They get distracted by loud toys fairly easily. Throw them something that makes noise and you can escape.
“Do you have anything to distract them with?”
“Your toys there. Throw them like we practiced.”
Zombies tend to have the ability to rip flesh off with their teeth. If you’ve never tried to rip off human flesh that’s still alive, you should know it’s a lot more difficult than it looks. Especially if they’re struggling. But the second they break skin, you’re fucked.
That’s because the infected have a problem with biting their lips. They want to destroy so badly they bite their own lips and constantly have blood there while attacking. Once they break your skin and one of those virus bots gets in, you’re now infected too.
“And they can’t get me by just looking at me?”
“No. They won’t get you if you look at them. They have to bite you.”
These infected also don’t look half bad. Zombies I tend to see as rotting and slow. You get a marathon runner infected, he won’t be slow. Thank God for guns.
“You think we need a better gun?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like a semi-automatic. One that can just go eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh. That gun we have now wasn’t very good in my games.”
“It’ll be fine. Double-barrel shotguns work better in real life.”
The only way to kill the infected here are to shoot them in the head or watch as they fight each other. But I wouldn’t just stand in the open. For some reason they tend to stop fighting each other if someone not infected shows up. At least until you’re dead or infected too.
“So I throw the toy and then you shoot and then we run?”
“Only if there’s a lot of them. Only run if there’s a lot of them. And don’t touch the blood. Whatever you do don’t touch the blood.”
And what about us? Well, my parents were the religious type. Thank God. They thought it’d be good to not live forever. I on the other hand wanted to change that. My grandmother said she wanted to live for a bit longer to see Chris graduate and to see her great grandkids. She had control over when she would die, and she’d go when she was ready.
“What happens if I touch the blood?”
“You’ll get sick like they are.”
I liked that thought. When the virus broke, I was scheduled to get the robots. I was ready to live life without so much worry of death.
“And I’ll die?”
“Yes Chris. You’ll die.”
But I don’t have them. Neither does Chris. I don’t know what happens if an infected bites you, but we’re not taking a chance. The robots can’t multiply, but I wonder how many need to be inside before they can control you.
“I thought I needed to have the robots?”
“No. You’ll die. Now go back to sleep.”
“Don’t you hear the rustling?”
“There is no rustling. There’s no one outside. Go to sleep.”
“Cock the gun please.”
“Why?”
“Just in case I touch the blood.”
And that’s really the story. Just another day here in this virus-infected land.

"The Unknown" progress

I have not been able to update this for awhile, and I apologize. This summer I wrote more for The Unknown. There are now 4 stories total in the series that explain the entire story.

Just this week I finished the 4th and final installment. I now plan to go back and start the rewrite for Episode 1 (the one I had online) and start the look for publishers that may be interested.

I contacted a few publishers a couple weeks ago, but they were interested in selling me a deal instead of publishing the book. I am not looking for that kind of publisher. I want one more interested in the work and getting it to people than trying to sell me something.

If you are a part of such a company, I would love to hear from you in the comments. It would be well appreciated.

"The Unknown" is offline for editing

I am using this time to edit my story "The Unknown" and hopefully get it published. I will update this blog with progress and how things are going. I thank everyone who has been reading, and welcome you to comment on here.

If you enjoyed my story, I do have a short story collection that you can purchase in the top right corner there.

As of now Part 1 and Part 2 have been rewritten and tweaked a bit. Slow going, but it's going.

For A Friend

Do you want the life I live? Do you think it'd be any better in someone else's shoes?

Would you rather be backstabbed numerous times by people you thought you could trust? Never being invited to things because no one thought to ask if you'd like to come, until you were on the verge of death? Being denied questioningly by your love, over and over again? Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather be in a field working day in day out with no pay? Your family is gone and dead, you have no friends- your friends are dead. Dying. Did they say to stop working? CRACK. See what I get for talking? For living? Being denied access to your love- because they don't want any babies around here. Too many to begin with. CRACK. Get back to work. Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather be on a bed every day with someone you thought you could trust over you, hurting you? The teddy bear the only thing to hold on to childhood. The drugs coming and going, the people coming and going, over top of you- coming, then going. There is no solitude, there is no peace, just the constant noise of the bed jerking, the money unrolling, the zipper's up and down. Do you want to suck on something that tastes like shit every day with no choice? Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather come home to empty bottles, a lifeless body that still breathes? One that never tells you 'hello' but only can muffle a 'get me another'. And that's only on your birthday. Would you rather be only known to counselors, because you come there so often trying to explain how the bruise was from hitting a door? Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather be afraid to come home because you heard two loud pops near your house the night before? Scraping by like rats, entertaining yourself with matches and rolled up paper, and the big man with a club will bust in any moment to beat you down and throw you away like a piece of trash. Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather walk outside, always having a high chance of hot metal piercing through you? Men on horseback, lit with vengeance, coming by every night to take more away with yellow and red. A hint of orange. But more red. Yelling at you, telling you, you should die for nothing you did and watching them cut off fingers of people because that's just how it works. It's an example to be made of. And if you move, there's the hot metal again. Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather eat what you can find in the forest, drink muddled water, and risk it all by living next to monkeys? Would you rather be so ill you couldn't walk, and when you beg to the rich people they just say 'nothing we can do' when they could? When they could do so much more if they just wanted to? Would you rather watch your six year old son dying outside next to a vulture, waiting for him? Do you want my shoes?

Would you rather be rich and famous? People gawking at you all the time. You couldn't go outside without a camera shoved into your face. Without a person yelling at you. No peace. No solitude. You make a mistake, and everyone knows about it. You can't even tell your parents what you've done wrong, it makes the papers before you could even dial the first number. It's too dangerous to drive, and your kids are meant to be superstars- even if you don't want them to. You want them to do what they want, not follow your footsteps. And love doesn't exist here, just a quickie marriage for publicity. Do you want my shoes?

Now I ask, do you want the life I live? Do you think it'd be any better in someone else's shoes?

The Story Told 1000 Times

I read about this girl once. She was five foot nine, weighed about 1000 pounds, and dear Jesus it was horrifying. I wondered what she'd taste like if they killed her and cooked her. Cutting off the fat would be hard, but I have a feeling it'd taste like McDonald's. French fried human meat, mmm.

I read about this guy once. He was seven foot ten, weighed more than me but was skinny, and dear Moses it was gruesome. Couldn't walk, fit in doorways, couldn't even go into some buildings because the ceiling was too low. I wondered if he'd constantly hit his head on the ceiling before so many times that he'd get a concussion. Bloody heads are delicious, mmm.

I read about this kid once. He was three foot six, weighed normal weight- but his face was, dear Lord Almighty, atrocious. Had gotten into a bad accident with a tractor trailer. Or a bulldozer. Don't remember. People would look at him, and make fun- and he was only seven...maybe twelve. Couldn't get into schools because he distracted classes too much, and his medical treatment became too important. Dragged him out of class. I wondered if he ever tore off a piece of him when he got hungry and ate it. Bulldozed baby face, mmm.

I read about this old man once. He was five foot four, weighed about a hundred pounds but probably less- and dear Joseph and Mary, it was dreadful. You could his ribs, and bones. Almost like he was a walking skeleton with a thin layer of skin. Had no hair, no teeth- and they even showed how his heartbeat could be seen through the skin. I wondered if he tasted like onions like old people smell like. Aged human with a onion twang, mmm.

I read about this baby once. It didn't say how big she was, but dear saintliness, was she weird looking. She had an eyeball on her palm, and one on her knee. She had hair all on her chest, and no eyes in her sockets or hair on her head. Like they transplanted it all there. They had no cure for her, but they tried operating on her- and she died of complications with the appendix rupturing. I wondered if the appendix exploding over the insides made her taste any different. Appendix soaked baby meat, mmm.

I told this story to some people once. It was about how I liked to try new things to eat. So they came over to my house and I took them to my basement. I showed them my cutting board and utensils, and dear Satan, was it ugly. Blood all over the place from the cows, the ducks, the chickens. I forgot to clean off my axe, my knives, my everything. They saw a moose head I stuffed and mounted, and asked what it tasted like. I told them it tasted like what they thought it would taste like, and they said "mmm".

I told them the story of me capturing the moose. It was a hunt in the woods nearby that I shot and killed it, and dear Buddha, was it foul. The body was torn to pieces by the shots I had to take, and little of the meat was left. But I was able to scrounge for what I could, and ate it. I told them it tasted exactly like I thought it would taste like, mmm.

They told me their story of wanting to try more foods. It was a strong desire from when they tried to go hunting and killed a deer, and by golly, was it gruesome. They told me about how they had shot the head by accident, the brains had splattered all over some concrete. I wondered what they'd taste like. Brains with a light seasoning of gravel and dirt, mmm.

Now I'll you the story of them trying something new. I offered them to try something new and they agreed. I grabbed them a hatchet, a knife- something sharp to cut with and gave it to each of them. I made them put their hands palm down on my cutting board. I made them chop down, practicing cutting. Told them to go faster. One of them accidentally cut off his finger. We quickly bandaged his hand, and put the finger on ice. I made a pot of hot water for tea. When he said he was fine, and had calmed down- had stopped bleeding- I put his finger in the pot. We tried it, but it didn't taste very good for was a health nut and we needed some fat in it. Boiled human finger with a side of fat, mmm.

Now that's what I call a meal.