The Lazarus Trials

The glass door opens and knocks a bell. The ring breaks through the drone ambience of a desk fan and the man at the counter flutters his eyes and sits up in his seat.

“Good mornin’ sir! We got half off on erything’ on shelf two.”

“I’ll just need twenty on pump one, thanks.”

“Ye sure? That’s barely two gallons.” The man behind the counter adjusts his suspenders and scratches his frail white beard.

“Yep, only need to get into the city.” He hands the man behind the counter a crinkled bill and puts his hand back into his jacket pocket.

“Now why would a young man like you need to be in the city? Ain’t they got it locked down?”

“I really need to get to my family.” His monotone voice cracks and he shifts his brown jacket’s collar around his neck. The man behind the counter scoffs.

“Buddy I’m pretty sure they’s just fine, it can’t be that bad.” The old man mumbles before returning to the register screen.

“Well it’s bad enough that there’s a sick man in my car.” He bent his mouth to a shameful frown. The man behind the counter freezes before staring up at him.

“Ye said what now?” He backs away from the counter and leans on the windowsill.

“No he’s… I have him in the trunk. He has a tarp over him, too. I just need to get him into the city.”

“Well you get on out now.” His eye twitches. “I got a spread gun, I don’t need ya puking on my floor.” The traveler sighs and raises his hands, palms forward at chest level.

“I am fine, let me get my gas let you be”

“Twenty on one, now go.”

The sedan’s door pops open. He climbs inside, tossing his brown jacket into the back seat. A sickly man in the passenger seat pulls a blanket off his head and turns to face him as the engine grinds to life. His thin hair drapes over his forehead, whose skin had turned a pale, flaky yellow. Cracks climb his face as if the dusty earth of an arid desert. The skin of his lips shriveled and torn to reveal cork-brown flesh.

“Did you get salt, man?” The sickly man groans.

“I should have got you water, but the owner nearly pulled a gun on me.” The sickly man turned his head towards the road as the car began to move. He tries to laugh, but only a whisper escapes his throat. His eyes were swollen and shot. His face was dry enough to pull off and fossilized to where a smile would tear it in half.

“What’s your name?” The sickly man croaked.

“Anthony, and yours?”

“Harold.”

“Well, Harold, once I get you into the city, we’ll have to split off. I’m looking for my family.” Anthony looked at the sickly man before swallowing and returning his eyes to the road. “We don’t have much road left. A few more turns and we’ll be out of the woods.” The evening sun flashed through the passing trees. Anthony squints, but Harold keeps his eyes fixated on the path ahead.

“Family. Who…” Harold tries to clear his throat but is met with a whispered cough. “Who are you looking for?”

“My mother, just my mother. She’s not in the right mind to deal with all this.”

“What… what’s wrong with ’er?”

“Alzheimer’s. And all that fancy medication isn’t doing a damned thing. I’m not confident she can even dress herself in the morning.” Anthony pulls his mouth from a frown and twitches with his neck.

“Well you’re doing a brave thing, Anthony,” Harold groaned. Anthony chuckles, forcing a smile.

“Don’t see how that makes me a war hero,” Anthony says as the car makes a sharp left. The woods abruptly end and the city is now placed in the center of the windshield.

“It got pretty bad, man. Last I heard, folks were dropping in the streets.” The air in the car becomes thicker. Anthony shrugs.

“It’s just mass hysteria. I’ve seen this before. The hospitals must still be up and running anyway.”

“Harold coughs and his whole body shakes with each diaphragm movement. His chest begins to rise and fall with the force of the ocean’s waves. “Why do you want to get in the hospital so bad, your mother in there?”

“Probably, but there’s someone I want to check in on as well. A staff member. She…” Anthony hesitates and looks back at Harold, who is trying to raise his legs into a fetal position, taking in every breath of air like it was his last.

“Tony, you need…” the wind of his breath scrapes off his yellow teeth as he tries again to clear his throat. “Everything’s gone to shit, man. You’re gonna need to face it, the world ain’t gonna give you extensions.” Anthony looks away from the sickly man and accelerates the car, the engine roars as it burrows down the road. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I….”

“You’re alright,” Anthony replies. His foot presses against the brake pedal and he curves the sedan to the side of the road. “You ain’t making it any further without water. I should have half a bottle in the trunk.” Harold tries to deny the offer, but his body won’t move and his voice has given up. Anthony steps out of the sedan and rounds to the trunk. He squirms his hand through the trash and miscellaneous items to reveal a rusted canteen. It’s apparent there is more air than water in the container after Anthony shakes it. He brushes off the dirt on the cap and walks back towards the front of the car. “Have you ever seen the back of someone’s head, and know exactly what their face looks like?” Anthony remarks as he opens the driver’s side door. His arm stretches out to offer the canteen to Harold, but his body halts. The ambiance of the road ended sharply. Anthony freezes in place. The deafening silence is broken by the gravel grinding beneath Anthony’s feet as he steps back. Harold is not breathing. Anthony drops the canteen onto the pavement. Its rusted edge crumbles and pours a stream off the road.

“Harold?” His voice shakes. He wipes his face and leans against the car. The canteen ends its symphony and now silence tears through the air as if a jet’s engine.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just gotten word that we have to air an emergency broadcast. We’ll need you all to stand by for a moment.” The radio begins to play soft jazz, barely audible through the thick static noise. Anthony sinks into the car seat, limbs sore from an attempted nap to shake off two days’ worth of consciousness. It had taken minutes for Anthony to tune the radio at just the right frequency to hear a talk show. He wasn’t sure what they were talking about. The hosts mentioned cars and an upcoming derby down in Tennessee being canceled due to sick horses, but listening to something was better than absorbing the bare road. Anthony willingly listened to the harsh static as opposed to opening his eyes to both tune the radio again and restore an image of the barren corpse fixed to the passenger seat . He feels himself finally drift into sleep to the white noise. The fuzz glides through his ears just as it did in his bedroom just a few years ago.

He used to live in his parents’ apartment. The living space was small but there was no shortage of incredible food. His mother loved cooking, but hated cleaning, hence the tiny apartment. His father was able to provide any cut of meat from any animal as well as any spice from juniper to caraway, crediting his job position. He worked for a medical technology research company. In what space wasn’t taken up with cooking equipment or furniture, boxes of papers and medical material piled to the ceiling. Anthony frequently used the fire escape from his bedroom to get to school instead of squeezing through the cardboard labyrinth, but he couldn’t have had more love for a mere person.

“...has been recorded to be present in every state. It is highly recommended that you migrate to the nearest CDP center for protection until Sear is under our control.” The radio cackled to life, now proudly vocalizing without static. Anthony peeled his eyes open and shifted himself into his seat. “Symptoms of Sear include vomiting, dry skin, hydrophobia, and extreme aggression. It spreads through saliva-blood contact. If you have any of these symptoms, please separate yourself from the people you are with and find the nearest hospital as soon as possible.” Anthony adjusts the volume, involuntarily rediscovering Harold. The wind whistles as it slides between the teeth in its open mouth. A sandy cavity in a soulless statue. Anthony didn’t spend time staring at it. He rests his head on his hand and continues listening to the broadcast. “Do not, I repeat, do not, interact with anyone showing symptoms of Sear or,” the radio hesitates before returning with a voice shaken by itself. “Don’t interact with anyone showing symptoms of Sear or anyone who has recently perished… from Sear. The recently deceased have been observed to,” the radio hesitates again and the rustling of papers is heard. Unintelligible mumbling is heard before the static parts way for the voice again. “Been observed to… the recently deceased have been…” A chair squeaks and the voice enunciates beyond the microphone. In a hardly audible speech, “You haven’t seen it! I can’t do this! Fuck this!” the radio cut like a knife. Only the soft clicks of the dial mute the silence. Anthony’s neck moistens and tenses. His teeth squeeze together as his mind clings to rational explanations and comprehension itself.

A raspy voice whistles from Anthony’s right, “It’s gotten worse hasn’t it.” Anthony’s limbs spring forward. His body jolts into his seat.

“You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead.”

“I just fell asleep. Can you turn on the radio again? It was getting good.” it raises a frail yellow finger to the radio.

“I can try tuning it again. Not promising anything.” Anthony turns the dial back and forth to no avail.

“So like, people are coming back to life?” The words scrape out through Harold’s throat.

“I don’t know, that’s not possible,” Anthony replies as he presses up against the radio harder.

“Well, that’s what the fucking radio said didn’t it,” Harold says in a voice from his bowels. He drops his head to face Anthony.

“Hey, chill. I don’t know. I couldn’t hear the radio all that well.”

“Well maybe if you got me that fucking salt, or even just drove the car like a normal person, we wouldn’t be taking advice from a radio.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know how painful this is.”

“Chill the hell out. We’ll start driving again and I’ll get you salt.”

“I don’t care about that shit anymore, ain’t nothing I can do because of you,” Harold begins to lift himself from his seat. Skin crumbles from his body as his limbs move again. His joints click rapidly as he strains to bend them. Anthony puts the key in the ignition and the engine sputters to life.

“Sit down, you’re going to hurt yourself. And, you’re fine. The radio said being angry is just a symptom.” Anthony looks down to pull the transmission into drive.

“You fucking liar!” Anthony throws his head to see it kick-off of the passenger door and jump towards him. Thin hair and stale flesh flake from its body as it claws at Anthony. Anthony’s sore forearms press against its bony chest. Its teeth gnash at him as it flails.

“You killed me!” teeth fall from its mouth as it screams through its grinding mouth.

“Stop it!” Anthony kicks it, desperately trying to hold it back before it tears into his face. He feels its knee crumble as he shoves his leg into its own. His arm and chest sting as cloth and skin give way to its scraping nails. Anthony throws his arm up past its face and grabs the door handle. He rips his hand from the door, barely grasping the handle. The car’s door swings open. Anthony kicks from the center console, hitting the transmission, and tumbles to the pavement.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” It screeches as it climbs across the driver’s seat and onto the pavement. The car begins to roll forward. It grabs Anthony’s foot and pulls him with an unhinged strength. Anthony recuperates from the stun of his fall and finds himself being dragged by the desiccated body hanging out of the rolling car. Anthony groans in pain as he squirms from its iron grip and rips himself free. The body releases a chord-tearing scream as it tumbles from the driver’s seat, which leisurely rolls over its body. Gray matter spreads across the ground as its head is crushed like unfinished pottery. The car rolls into a pothole and the grinding of gravel under its tires ceases. Anthony looks down at his body. Beads of blood appear where his shirt was torn and red skin is visible. His eyes lazily roll into focus as he glances down to his leg. Its hand was still grasping his ankle, now separated from its body.

As the adrenaline gradually leaves his pulsing veins, pain begins crawling from his insides. He first feels the bruises from his fall from the car, and stinging from his ankle as he presses on the acceleration. Anthony’s sore arms beg to be dropped as he turns the wheel. Burning on his torso and shoulders as they are exposed to the cold breeze. Lastly, a mixture of burn and sting pokes out just above his elbow. It taunts him to turn his arm over and peek at it, which he does.

His organs slide down to his abdomen. Anthony’s eyes bulge from his head as his face twists into spirals. Seven rectangular indents are revealed. Five of them have broken skin, four have dried blood. He frantically scrapes the blood away, but vivid red leaks from the site to take its place. Words ricochet in his skull as if it was made out of rubber, only being able to decipher a few.

Blood-saliva contact.

You’re fucked.

Maybe they aren’t tooth marks.

Anthony looked up to see the outline of buildings on the horizon.

Yes, go.

They can’t help.

They have a hospital.

You killed him.