Zombies Apocalypse

Chapter 1

Paul Brighton could feel his stomach churning as he watched the news on the television. He convinced himself that he could feel it from his head to the tips of his toes, and it was an extremely unpleasant sensation. His stomach couldn't be the only thing churning. His entire body must have been shaking. It was like the world was some way or another turning in ideal chance to his body, so that despite the fact that maybe he was standing by, he was as a matter of fact in an exceptionally fast, extremely perilous spiral that took steps to spill his inner parts across the research center floor.

“Normally, Tyler Adam, Paul's boss and a tall, bald, and irritable forty-something, would not have been pleased that there were any outside electronics in the room. This is an examination research center," he would have yelled at Paul in his feeble, stressing voice that seemed as though it had spent an excessive number of its years not being put to any utilization, "not a cinema," or whatever other not exactly equivalent correlation. He would not, however, be enraged on this day. He was not going to be bothered at all on this day. He was going to die the day he sat in the corner of the room and watched Paul's screen over his shoulder.

Paul held the phone uselessly in his white-knuckled hand for almost two hours, as if he expected it to ring at any moment. or, at the very least, inform him in some way that it would once again be available for use. He had refused to give up for the first hour, dialing again and waiting through several busy signal beeps, half expecting and half hoping that they would turn into a ring, but they never did. It became increasingly apparent to the two men in the room as time and the news progressed that assistance would not arrive today. In fact, Paul started to doubt that assistance would ever return. Assistance was no longer available. Life had come to an end. He was aware in his heart that the world had devolved into this by watching nothing but death on television.

They had turned it into this.

Not that they had intended for this to happen. They had only good intentions at all times. They had lived their lives with only the best intentions. At least, that's what they were attempting to convince themselves of at the moment.

It wasn't like they didn't have good reasons to consider it. Their brains were complete medical knowledge databases. Paul was certain that he could, if necessary, diagnose, treat, operate on, and nurse back to health almost any number of typical, problematic medical problems that they would face on a daily basis at any hospital, even though he had never actually tried, at least not seriously. With the changes in the world he was watching, it started to seem significantly less unreasonable to consider using those latent skills. Of course, he was smart enough to know that sending someone to an actual medical doctor or surgeon would be the vastly preferred first step to any treatment he might recommend.

However, it was precisely that knowledge that had led them here. Their minds and hearts had sung the anthem of "First do no harm" with the fervent devotion of a priest, but their hands had unfortunately made a reality that was worse than the worst horrors of their nightmares.

Alan shifted a little on his stool as he coughed, a disgusting, hacking cough full of blood and spit. He rolled his head along the wall as he did this in the hope of finding a more comfortable place to rest it against the concrete and metal that made up the cabinet and wall he was leaning against. Paul was jolted out of his trance by the sound and the movement, which brought him back to the real world. He finally released the phone from his hand and let it fall onto the table, though he did so reluctantly. He raced across the room to meet his superior.

Paul made his decision as he walked, forcing the unsettling thought down his throat. There was no reason why the man should have to die on his own, without a friend by his side, when he could be dead in a matter of minutes or even seconds. Even though the two men did not always get along, they certainly respected one another and were able to come to an understanding of one another at this point.

The black man, who was tall and thin, comforted his friend by holding his friend's shoulder. Alan, how are you doing? Can I get anything for you?” he asked, the shudder in his voice annoyingly double-crossing the fear reducing endlessly within.

Alan's eyes rolled in their sockets and didn't see anything, but he barely moved otherwise. Paul couldn't tell for the life of him whether the other man was breathing or just making a grim wheeze that Paul couldn't help but hear.

"Are you alright?" The older man's harsh and irate voice echoed. How in God's name could I possibly be okay? Do you think I look good to you? Do I appear to be okay in any way?” He had difficulty speaking the more he tried, and by the end of his brief speech, he was coughing and hacking incessantly. After that, the coughs stopped all of a sudden, and Alan let out a cry of pain while doubling over in his chair, clutching the wound to his side. He nearly fell to the ground due to the intense pain; would have fallen to the ground if Paul hadn't been there, ready for the next move like a skilled guardian.

As he attempted to free the other man's hands from the wound, the younger man said, "Let me see it." Let me see it, okay?

Alan allowed his hands to be removed from the bloody hole so that his fellow citizen could examine it, despite his weak whimpers and moans. Paul remained optimistic about what they were dealing with as he dug through his lab coat and passed the other man's hands. This fire was stoked by his recent reflections on the potential applications of his medical knowledge, and before long, he was fully convinced that he could even cure the man. After all, maybe there was still hope. He knew better when he saw the wound.

There was no hope.

The cut was brown and green, and thick, light yellow-gray pus bulged out of it and ran along its length. It was an absolutely disgusting sight that no human being ought to ever have to witness. Paul came to the horrifying conclusion that no physician would be able to assist them at this time. A wound like that would never have been seen by a doctor. Paul had, though. He knew right away what it was. He also knew that a lot more people would soon come to learn now. A lot of people would undoubtedly become accustomed to seeing this sight.

He took off his clothes and let his hands fall to the ground. Alan quickly resumed holding onto his side, as if he could just tighten his grip enough to prevent pain. Without saying a word, they both knew what was going to happen then. Without saying a word, they were both aware of the horror that ensued.

Alan said, his voice suddenly calm, almost as if it had managed to separate from his body and become its own distinct entity. "It's the end of the world," he said. Paul noticed that the other man's eyes were fixed on him as he was looking past Paul when he looked up at him. He followed the man's gaze until it brought him back to the television, where it was hard to tell whether the images were just the nightly news or a Hollywood blockbuster about Armageddon.

Paul said softly, "You don't know that." That didn't occur to either of them for a moment, and neither of them even acknowledged the statement.

The room was enveloped in a melancholy calm. In a day filled with ominous events, it may have been the most unsettling. Paul was deeply troubled by the fact that the other man seemed to have forgotten about his wound, despite the fact that he did not want his friend to suffer. Alan didn't try to close the gaping hole or stop the fluids from seeping out of it, his arms dangling at his sides.

From the direction of the television, soft, quiet screams broke out. Paul turned to see something fall over a man, tearing into his flesh and dragging him to the ground. The camera then turned to flee, shaking the view violently.

The eerie calm voice of the anchorman was saying, "...warn you to stay inside, lock your doors, and make no attempt to leave."

Alan said suddenly, "We played God," which shocked Paul and diverted his attention from the news. "And He is angry with us," Alan added.

Paul replied, "We did nothing of the sort," surprising himself with his rage. We acted appropriately. We were only attempting to do what was in everyone's and our best interests. We attempted to save lives. In the void, the words echoed hollowly. They didn't seem to have the same weight as Alan's argument, for some reason.

Paul, he thought to himself, is just delusional. The man was ill and even dying. With the fever and pain, he must be completely out of his mind by this point. The rantings of a madman shouldn't come across as anything more than that in his words.