Chapter One: Pandora's Box Personified

 

Strangely, it's the fresh air I miss the most. Not trees or green grass, or even a cloudless blue sky. Not a freshly cooked steak, a homemade apple pie or a chilled brew on a muggy summer day, but a single whiff of sweet, stale-free oxygen. Air that doesn't contain the faint scent of day-old farts, the coppery stench of burnt coffee or tar and nicotine breath.

Nine months inside a concrete tomb, that's basically what it comes down to, although this particular mausoleum does hold considerably more charm than our last extended rest stop, 'The Glow Motel', as Sergeant Rock had so aptly dubbed it. Don't believe any of us were ever quite comfortable spending two months in an abandoned nuke silo. Just didn't have that 'homey' feel, so to speak.

The 'Hive' isn't exactly the Hilton either, but at least it does contain a dozen separate walled sections, so there is a semblance of privacy anyway.

I found the unmarked, unlabeled DVD's at the bottom of a cardboard box in the rear of the supply room, buried beneath a pile of yellow pocket folders overstuffed with dry-rotted files from decades past. The entire room smelled of ancient rat droppings, despite the obvious impossibilities of such. The place is so spotless, so strangely sanitized, that it almost makes you lonely for the occasional roach or dead fly lying about. Not sure why I decided to take an impromptu inventory of the room after all this time, other than to chalk up such a fruitless task to extreme boredom. Despite the camaraderie of the unit, we all desire our moments of solitude, especially with the impending scenario looming like a dark storm cloud. Humans crave companionship, true, but are also a solitary creature at heart. As a species, we are...were walking, talking contradictions. I never dwelled upon such matters, never had a reason to actually. Scary how things change, like that guy from The Eagles once sang, in 'A New York Minute'.

I can hear Lieutenant Lava's shrieking rant through the thick concrete walls, no doubt railing on Private Brain Dog, who patiently waits, preparing his hip-hop themed, profanity-laced rebuttal to whatever she's moaning about. Those two seem to revel in the art of argument for argument's sake, complete opposites in terms of personality and general opinion.

Sergeant Rock is always telling them to 'jump between the sheets and get it over with', a suggestion that never fails to induce a cringe from Father Pete, despite the fact that everyone knows such a coupling between the two is old news.

Being the only two females within the unit, both Lieutenant Lava and Airman Legs willingly accept their unspoken responsibilities to the male troops, as well as the 'mother figure' roles they assume solely for Kid Cadet, the only child within our skeletal crew ranks. My admiration and respect for those two women (especially the good Lieutenant, but more on that later) goes even beyond that of the Chief, the man most responsible for keeping us alive the past year and a half.

As I begin to repack the box (a brief time filler at best) after setting the mystery DVD's aside, I hear the Chief chime in as if on cue, spouting the now nauseatingly familiar 'Stow it, clowns!" refrain in his deep, husky tone. Despite his best efforts, however, it's obvious his bark is decidedly worse than his bark of late. I would think it's rather easy to lose your authoritative edge when mortality is staring you dead in the face.

They are all gathered about the makeshift monitoring room, no doubt sipping lukewarm coffee and munching on MRE crackers that are less crisp than rubbery from decades old packaging. Everyone, save myself and Sergeant Rock, who I can hear thumping around in the exercise room. I don't have to glare into a monitor to know what awaits us. I don't have to see or hear them to know they're out there, swarming like bloated maggots on a rotting corpse. The ad campaign worked wonders, it seems. Better than we could ever have hoped. The ruthless hordes know we're here. Probably smell us, like roasted wienies propped over a blazing campfire. We are truly the life-source for their being, serving a double purpose to the future of their survival as a species while our own has been so cruelly, systemically eradicated. Not that we're one hundred percent positive that there aren't others like us still out there somewhere, living like moles instead of humans, but even so, it's a safe bet that the numbers are frighteningly low. The hordes seem increasingly frantic the past few months, decidedly more desperate. Hosts are becoming few and far between, and the air space they occupy is becoming thick with anxiety.

As I depart the supply room for 'sleep bay', the largest of the Hives' compartments, I hear The Chief instruct Corporal Chatty to up the amps on the outside speakers. The vibrations are whipping them into a frenzy, like a dinner bell ringing from some unseen buffet hall.

I kneel onto my sleeping bag, lay back and remove the rubber band which serves to hold the coupled DVD's together. The discs are pitch black in color, the outside cases clear and without markings of any kind. I deduce they must consist of 'Top Secret' war contingencies or Op Plans, possibly even training films on how to survive a nuclear holocaust-ravaged earth. Regardless, the utter uselessness of such drivel strikes me as hilariously ironic as a wide smile creases my usually stoic visage. Laying back to further study the stone ceiling overhead, I realize how dramatically I've aged since the plague, especially in the psychological sense. A twenty-seven year old man housing a senior-citizen attitude; battle worn and constantly at odds with a level of mental fatigue he never previously thought possible.

Another loud thump from two rooms down, and I hear Sergeant Rock sigh loudly. A true creature of habit, is our Kenneth McKay. Pounds those weights for hours on end, like a man prepping for Mr. Universe honors. Hits the hard bag until his fists are raw and his knuckles bleed. I guess we've all developed our own unique technique to stave off the insanity boiling just below the surface of our skullcaps. Mine is to journal this maddening existence as the days drone on, despite the reality of never having such a dairy read by anyone of my own kind. Everyone's been asked to add something to the time capsule that Father Pete is putting together. He's packing the objects in a stainless steel tube he pulled from the silo. Doubtful it will survive the blast, but it's the symbolism of the deed that counts, not the eventual fate of the object itself.

Eighteen months of avoiding death's sharp-edged rapier can take their toll, both mentally and physically. I'm sure all nine of us would be a real study if such an occupation as psychiatrist still mattered. Incurable head cases with multiple phobias and remarkable tolerance levels for pain and anguish. We've all seen more death and destruction in these past several months than in every ultra-violent movie or TV show ever produced.

I reach over and pull the worn, leather bound journal from my duffel, careful not to tip over the small makeup stand sitting between my own sleeping bag and that of Airman Legs. Maintaining her looks is Pam Vincent's vice. I can't say I don't approve of the effort, however moot. Pam is what society used to label 'drop dead gorgeous, despite the added battle scars of recent times.

Flipping to the front of the book, I glance over the initial entries with an astonishingly diverse mix of feelings, the gist of which include both pinning nostalgia and gut-wrenching, primal fear.

Some of the names had long since departed our dwindling ranks, and the attached faces vanished just as quickly from my tattered mind.

The present line-up:

Yours truly, Barry Hooper, AKA 'Private Radar' (for my inexplicable talent for sensing impending danger. More curse than godsend, in my humble opinion, but even I cannot completely deny its usefulness in our plight).

Age: Twenty-seven (last October, when months, days and hours actually meant something)

Physical Description: White male. Five-eight, one-hundred sixty pounds. Prominent, beak-like nose (a mark of us Hoopers since my great, great grandad), pasty complexion (never could hold a tan. Skin would always turn rose red and proceed to roast).

Former occupation: UPS Route Driver, Austin, TX; part time writer of un­published fiction.

Family status: Wife (Denise) and five year old son Wallace missing, presumed deceased (taken three days after the nest was unearthed in Northern Alabama). You hold out hope for a while, then it slowly fades into reluctant acceptance. The sour feeling never leaves my gut, however, whenever their faces enter my dreams.

'Swarm Day' Location: When the city was besieged upon on that steamy hot Austin summer day, I had driven my route truck towards home like a doped up lunatic, only to discover the house (actually the entire street we lived on) ravaged and my loved ones gone. Looked like someone had rocked our house, as every window was shattered and every door bashed open. I had been on my way to my parent's place in Fort Worth, the interstates packed to overflowing and moving at a snail's pace, despite the shoulders on both sides being used as lanes. The hordes swept down on us from all directions. I saw several unfortunate individuals pulled from their vehicles and whisked away like confetti in a funnel cloud. The idling Greyhound was parked just to the left of my UPS van. Just as one (several?) of the swarm landed atop my vehicle, I leapt from the truck and sprinted to the bus. Inexplicably lost the pinkie finger of my right hand in the process. Hope they choked on it. The rest, as they say...will soon be history.

***

NCOIC In Charge: Kenneth McKay, AKA 'Sergeant Rock'. Age: Forty

Physical Description: White male, six-feet two, two-hundred twenty pounds. Strong as an ox and twice as ornery, his physique seemingly carved in stone from decades of hard work and a daily weight lifting regimen. Completely bald (riddled with recently obtained scars) from daily shaving, sports a Fu Manchu mustache that hangs from the corners of his granite jaw like twin caterpillars.

Disposition: A man of infinite jest, old Rock Jaw, although he'd never admit such under oath. The equivalent of a rabid wolverine during combat conditions.

Former Occupation: Warehouse Manager, Selma, Alabama. Served two decades in the National Guard, where he was once a member of his unit's boxing team.

Family status: Wife and three children (all high school age) missing and presumed dead (taken in initial attack on southern Alabama just two days after the unearthing in the northern part of the state). Much like myself, Kenneth had raced home from work to find his rural, country home torn apart and his loved ones missing. Witnessed his elderly neighbors pulled from their home through a living room picture window and swept airborne, their screams muffled and weak as they were hauled into the clouds by their ankles. After a frantic but fruitless search of the besieged township, had immediately drove north to Birmingham, ditched his own vehicle and caught a Greyhound bound for his brother's home in Lawton, Oklahoma.

'Swarm Day' Location: Same stretch of interstate as yours truly, already taking up a seat in the aforementioned Greyhound.

***

Grunt #1: Pamela Vincent, AKA 'Airman Legs' (for obvious reasons. Those slick, impeccably toned bad boys seem to go on infinitely).

Age: Thirty-one

Physical Description: White female, five-feet nine, approximately one-hundred twenty-five pounds. Tanned complexion, lengthy straight brown hair, hazel eyes.

Toned, muscular build without being overly masculine. Legs of a dancer (see former occupation), face of a Victoria's Secret model. Basically, a woman who stood in the beauty line more than once when looks were being doled out.

Family Status: Twice divorced, no children.

Disposition: Relatively mild-mannered and even tempered unless alcohol happens to pass over those ruby, ever- pouting lips, resulting in her wildly uninhibited evil twin springing forth in a gusher of howling laughter and booze induced shrieking. The shakiest of the crew when faced with imminent combat, she always seems on the verge of a complete meltdown.

Former Occupation: Exotic dancer, various locations. Hawthorne, California.

'Swarm Day' Location: Traveling interstate in late model Mustang GT, abandoned car as attack commenced. Practically dragged into the Greyhound by force, she continued to scream for at least a half-hour after the battle had waned. It was weeks before she completely snapped out of her hysterical daze to begin training as the serviceable (albeit a bit shaky) soldier she's become.

***

Grunt #2: Clarence Warren, Private Brain Dog (rap music aficionado with an IQ measured at around one-sixty. Mechanical, as well as electronics whiz).

Age: Twenty-two.

Physical Description: Black male, six-feet, one hundred seventy pounds. Sports a thick, uncombed Afro (cultivated over the past eighteen months) he comically refers to as his 'tribute to the lost bro's of the seventies'.

Family status: Single. Parents reside (d) in Tulsa, Ok.

Disposition: Comically sarcastic; loud and boisterous. Can be standoffish, but usually good-natured. Calm and collected within the combat zone, he is heavily counted on for his natural ability to problem solve.

Former Occupation: Student, ITT Technical Institute. A self-taught electronics whiz. Worked part time stocking groceries.

'Swarm Day' Location: Within the Greyhound that eventually served as our safe haven, headed to his parents home in Tulsa from Little Rock, where he was attending ITT classes.

***

Grunt #3: Robert Gonzales, AKA 'Corporal Chatty' (For his less than vocal persona. A man of precious few words).

Age: Forty-eight.

Physical Description: Hispanic Male. Five-Five, One-sixty to one-sixty five (down at least thirty pounds in the last year). Thick wavy brown hair that is graying at the temples but hangs over his forehead like pasted shingles. Slowly transformed sagging, pudgy build into rock hard muscle by joining in on Sergeant Rock's daily work out routine.

Family Status: Watched in muted horror as his wife of twenty-six years was abducted from their Ford van as they drove south from Chicago to their son's home in Dallas.

The Chief (more info below) managed to pull Robert onto the bus as he stood with his back against the door, fighting one off with a tire iron as his wife was being air­lifted into the clouds just a few dozen feet in the distance. It took three of us, practically sitting on top of him for almost an hour, to calm him somewhat. He finally passed out from sheer exhaustion. I sincerely believe the man would have taken on the whole damn swarm without a moment's hesitation, armed with a can of Raid in one hand and a flyswatter in the other. Not sure I've ever, or ever will, love anyone that much, although that particular question has arisen of late (again, more later as this narrative drones on...)

Disposition: The textbook definition of low-key. Quiet, reserved, soft spoken. Says more with the least amount of words than anyone I've ever met.

Former Occupation: Owner, G & G Vending, Chicago, IL.

'Swarm Day' Location: See above.

***

Grunt#4: Tia Stephens, AKA 'Lieutenant Lava' (see disposition).

Age: Twenty-Three

Physical Description: Asian female. Five-feet, ninety-five pounds. Pitch-black straight hair that hangs in a tightly wound pony tail reaching to the pit of her back. Small, pug nose gracing a flawlessly sculpted face whose most striking feature are her piercing, dark-brown eyes. Lithe and wiry; easily the most agile of the unit. Unofficially second in command of the unit, solely due to her nerves, which seem welded from the purest of metal alloys.

Family: Legally separated from husband two years earlier.

Parents reside(d) in South Korea.

Disposition: Difficult to narrow down, depending on the minute. Mood seems to swing like a pendulum blade. Kind and accommodating at times; foul-tempered and moody the next, hence the nickname. Combat ready at the drop of an eyelash, Tia seems to invite the rage and harness it as pure adrenaline.

Personal Note: The woman exudes eroticism. I'm literally a walking pile of moist putty within her intoxicating space. Airman Legs might score more points in the natural beauty category, but Tia's whimsical charms and raw sex appeal are off the charts. She's the ultimate temptress; a dragon-lady goddess in tight leather pants. As much as I despise myself for saying it, my wife didn't possess half the seductive drawing power as this woman. Of course, I might just be a tad biased (more on that later, as time permits).

Former Occupation: Telemarketer/Data Entry, Dayton, Oh.

'Swarm Day' Location: Driving home (the scenic route) from visiting a friend in Colorado Springs. The Honda Civic she navigated was stationed directly behind the Greyhound when the attack commenced. Sergeant Rock and I pulled her into the bus from a rear window (Slamming it shut just as one of the enemy landed where the relatively narrow opening had been). If Tia had been two inches taller or her torso a tad wider, this particular journal entry would not exist.

***

Grunt#5: Peter Wilkes, AKA 'Father Pete'.

Age: Forty-six.

Physical Description: White male. Five-nine, two-hundred twenty pounds (down twenty pounds since team inception). Mostly bald except for thick tufts of grayish-white hair around his jug-like ears. Pointy chin, red-tinted, bulbous nose (typically observed on heavy drinkers, which Father Pete readily confessed to being decades earlier). Reminds Sergeant Rock of the actor who played Lumpy Rutherford's dad on 'Leave it to Beaver'.

Family Status: Divorced in late eighties. No children. Parents deceased.

Disposition: Predictably, Father Pete is kind and helpful. Unpredictably, he shows streaks of unabashed stubbornness and occasionally gets downright mean when his opinions are challenged. Does not push his religious beliefs, although he openly objects (but rarely verbally) to the relationship (agreement?) between the men and women of the unit regarding carnal activities.

Still, Father Pete provides a calming influence amongst the ever-present lunacy surrounding us. Former Occupation: Methodist Preacher, Lawton, Oklahoma. 'Swarm Day' Location: Within the Greyhound, returning from a weekend visit to his older sister in Fort Worth. Had debated for days before the trip on whether or not to take the chance of making the drive in his well-worn Chevy truck, which had been having transmission problems. Has since chalked up the decision to 'bus it' to the lord's overall plan for his place within our ranks. 'No squadron is complete without a divine messenger,' Father Pete was apt to repeat in those early, anxiety-fueled days. Despite his less than menacing outward appearance, has proven he can hold his own in a firefight.

***

Grunt#6: Jake Johannsen, AKA 'Kid Cadet'.

Age: Ten and a half (white Male).

Physical Description: Four-feet six, seventy pounds. Bushy blonde hair, blue eyes, pale complexion.

Family: Parents missing and presumed deceased.

Disposition: Despite the living hell his young eyes have witnessed since the age of nine, a very level headed and typically carefree kid. His youthful exuberance rubs off on all, just as the sincere innocence he displays reminds us of the reason we continue to persevere. Other than the mass extermination of the enemy, we have dedicated ourselves just as strongly to overseeing his survival.

Former Occupation: 3rd Grader, West Union Elementary, Fort Worth, Texas.

'Swarm Day' Location: Riding to Wichita Falls with his mother to visit his aunt. Vehicle was overturned beneath concrete underpass as the enemy descended in never-ending waves of humanity. Jake's mother had just enough time to shove him into the van's rear compartment before being pulled through the shattered remains of the driver's side window. Jake had been crawling from the rear door when the bus bounded by in a wavy lurch, searching for an off-ramp leading away from the onslaught. Private Brain Dog pulled him into the bus feet first while Sergeant Rock and I played sentry from the bus entrance.

***

Team Leader: Conrad Masterson, AKA 'The Chief' (see former occupation below).

Age: Fifty (Black Male).

Physical Description: Six-two, one-ninety-five. Four words: Lean, mean, fightin' machine.

Family: Lifelong bachelor. Parents deceased.

Disposition: Stern but caring. A disciplinarian from the old school that follows a single, simple rule of thumb: expect no more from others than you're willing to contribute yourself.

Former Occupation: Police Officer, City of Houston (hence the 'Chief' label). Retired as Patrol Sergeant (served a total of twenty-six years). Had worked as home security advisor for a local Houston security firm for less than two months when attacks commenced.

'Swarm Day' location: Three vehicles behind Greyhound as assault began. Exited his Ford Explorer to assist a nearby elderly couple as their own vehicle fell under siege. Unable to foil their abduction, he fought his way to the bus entrance and assisted in loading others inside. Spearheaded our 'back roads' route to the first of many temporary safe havens. As days progressed and tensions built to a fever pitch, the Chief became our unofficial team leader by default. He inspired us to turn our pity into anger, our suicidal depression into motivation to live...live to kill. Kill to live. Simple but effective.

Personal Note: Without the Chief, our existence as a unit would have never materialized, much less made it this far. I'm fairly certain this opinion is unanimously shared within the ranks.