Unrest

Part One: The Rising

A blood curdling scream filled the ears of a young woman causing an overwhelming panic to build up inside of her. Stomach turning, she ducked beside her bed on the side hidden from the large bay window. Her hands shook violently as she cupped them over her ears and closed her eyes, desperately trying to drive out the sound. Soon came a second scream. This one seemed less fearful and more painful. Then a third, a much quieter, longer, burst of terror. Patricia swore she could hear the tears of the fallen woman. Or maybe it was just her imagination. Either way didn’t matter as the screaming stopped as quickly as it had begun. Now only an eerie silence lingered.

Patrica didn’t stand up as soon as the screaming had stopped. This was not the first time that she had heard the last breaths of another and as morbid as it sounded in her mind she hoped it would not be the last. She couldn’t push back the question that haunted her every waking moment. Would the next scream be hers?

If you had seen Patricia on the street, before all hell had been released upon her home, you would think of her as a rather ordinary, thirty-something, caucasian woman. She was tall with a boyish body, had long and straight dark brown hair, and unremarkable brown eyes. Pretty, but not a supermodel. Just an ordinary girl. This was fine for her. She didn’t like a lot of attention anyway.

After a few deep breaths Patrica managed to regain her composure. Her panic turned to frustration with herself. You’re such a coward! She would yell at herself internally fearing it too dangerous to speak a single word aloud. Over the past few days she had heard many screams, most of which had been late Thursday evening, and each one marked the end of another life. Her friends and neighbors, one by one, had fallen.

When the news first started reporting the incidents of crazed human behavior and extreme violence everyone suspected that a new drug was involved. The masses accepted this to be the truth even though no information was given. A questioning individual would have asked, What is the drug? Where does it come from? How are people getting it? But there were no answers provided and those who questioned this were quickly laughed at. The simple truth was that if a drug had been causing people to lose their minds and cannibalize one another then someone had to be providing this drug. But few people questioned this out of fear of ridicule.

As the days drew on the news did little to depict the true crisis that was unfolding around the world. Late night talk show hosts cracked jokes of zombies while politicians scoffed at one another clearly trying to use the uncertainty of the situation to further their political careers. Any official that had chosen to aire on the side of caution and proposed a state of emergency quickly became a laughing stock. The mayor of her town, Jonathan Baker, had been turned from a respected leader of the community to a joke in a single interview. It was this way for a few days… then the president issued a state of emergency suddenly and without warning.

Panic began to spread like a wildfire as reports of grisly murders, cannibalism, and a debilitating illness began to sweep the nation. When the president released a nation-wide state of emergency it was as if a flash flood of information was released upon the world. In that moment everything turned from funny to serious. Politicians still continued to argue and accuse one another of scandal. Nobody wanted to admit that they had helped cover up the initial reports. Had the events been covered up to protect the people from a panic or simply for political gain. This question was on everyone’s lips but it didn’t matter anymore. The slow response had damned them all.

Cities evacuated overnight and refugees flooded into Patricia’s small town seeking safety. Reports of illness skyrocketed as the refugees continued to flood in until the small hospital in Millstone was full to bursting. Camps of scared citizens sprang up in parks and parking lots after hotels had all filled up. The helpful and friendly citizens of Millstone tried to open their homes to the refugees but still more people flooded in. It was as if the small town had become an overfilled balloon, stretched and strained, and still more air was being added every day. Until the day it popped.

Wednesday, March 10th had signaled the beginning of the end. Tension had pushed the small town over the edge and there was no turning back. It started at the hospital. Gunfire could be heard in the distance accompanied by screams. Panic of a spreading disease had caused a group of panicked locals, a small-town militia of sorts, to begin executing the sick. Then many of the doctors and nurses. Fueled by fictional horror stories they wanted to stop an outbreak before it had the chance to take over the world. Hundreds died as the group, lead by Patricia's own neighbor, Daniel Bronte, barricaded the exits and assaulted the patients and staff with smoke bombs and gunfire.

The police were slow to respond. Millstone was small and quiet normally and their police department was sluggish at best. By the time they arrived at the hospital it was already too late. A firefight ensued between the makeshift militia and the police. Meanwhile the entire town had descended into madness. Looting and rioting filled the streets and scared refugees began to demand their way into homes and markets seeking to horde supplies for themselves. It wasn’t long before gunfire could be heard all across the small town. Families ran for their lives trying desperately to protect their young from the madness as entire households were executed, their homes and supplies claimed by another. Bodies lined the streets that night.

By Thursday morning things had calmed slightly but the damage could not be undone. Thousands lay dead on the streets, even more in the hospital, and the remaining police had barricaded themselves and their families in the police station in an attempt to survive. Everything remained tense but quiet, until that evening.

One by one the dead lining the streets began to move. At first just a little, just a twitch or two, but before long moans and groans filled the silent night as all those killed the night before began to crawl. Then they walked…

Patricia’s sleeping hours were plagued by the memories of those she knew and loved screaming into the night. She could still taste the blood in the air. The event that she referred to as The Rising had happened in the darkness of a new moon and caught most everyone off guard. It was only by luck, and a great deal of prayer, that Patricia lived through that night.

Two days had passed since The Rising and it was slowly growing more and more quiet outside. She hadn’t heard the booming sounds of gunfire in hours and the deathly screams were becoming less frequent. Their sound had been replaced by the dull sound of shuffling feet with the occasional morbid sounds of her neighbors feasting upon one another.

With her nerves now settled Patricia crawled around her bed loosening the sheet. Although distracted by the last scream she was determined to complete her plan. The bay window of her bedroom was once a source of beauty and light, but now it was a death sentence. With every new death reanimating her once quiet trailer park was becoming overrun by the dead. All the windows of her kitchen and spare room had been busted out leaving them dangerously open. Now only her bedroom and bathroom were protected. She needed to cover that window.

I have to remain hidden.

With slow steady breathing she pulled at the sheet on her bed slowly. Movement seemed to attract the dead and she wanted to avoid as much attention as possible. Just as the sheet hit the floor a loud bang from outside made Patricia nearly jump out of her skin. With breath held she listened to the source of the sound. The sound of metal scraped across rock followed the first bang followed by a lot of shuffling feet.

Sounds like those bastards knocked over my trash can.

Patricia sighed in relief and continued her mission. She had to remain below window level as she scooted over to her desk. Although she couldn’t remember when she last bought any tacks she prayed that a few remained in her desk drawers. Afterall what is a desk for if not to be filled with all sorts of items that you never use. She slowly opened drawer after drawer, careful not to make any noise. The desk was old and made of solid wood that had warped over the many years. It had actually been her grandmother's old sewing table. Normally it wouldn’t matter if the drawers stuck a little but at this moment the tiniest noise could spell her doom. She couldn’t chance a single squeak.

With breath held Patricia slowly removed drawer after drawer, examining their contents before placing them on the floor beside her. It wasn’t until the third drawer that she had finally found what she was looking for, tacks. Hallelujah! She had never been so happy in her life to see those mundane multi-colored plastic tacks that she used to arrange into patterns on the corkboard in her teenage bedroom.

With a feeling of victory, as fleeting as the comfort might be, she crawled over to the bay window. Very slowly she poked her head up just enough for her eyes to look upon the outside world. She scanned to the left, nothing. To the right, also nothing. Everything was trashed, but luckily clear of the walking dead. For now…

Those bastards must all be too busy investigating my trash can.

Patricia moved quickly but steadily as she held up the sheet and quickly tacked it up over the exposed window. When she was done she stepped back to examine her handiwork. It was good enough to completely block her movements from the monsters outside. Sure it would offer no protection in the event of an attack but at least she could once again stand up in her own bedroom. With a smile she stepped backwards and laid down on her bed cherishing her small victory.