Tim Curran - Biohazard

That was it.

Specs and I tossed aside our suits, lit cigarettes like workmen after a hard day on the job, and walked away from it all. We went looking for a car. We were going to Cleveland.

Cleveland had a real bad rat problem, even worse than Youngstown. At night, hordes of them would come up out of the sewers and cellars and take to the streets in massive swarms like driver ants, devouring anything in their path. They were all rabid and incredibly vicious. By moonlight, you could see them down there, so many greasy gray bodies that you could have crossed the street walking on their backs and never once touched pavement. I saw them take down dog packs and street gangs, leave nothing but bones behind.

Cleveland, as it turned out, also had Red Rains.

I woke that first night in the city to the sound of Specs screaming. We were crashed out in a big Cadillac El Dorado we found parked in an empty lot over in Fairfax, just off Cedar Avenue on East 86^th. Looked like it had been a pimp’s car once…leopard seats with hot-red plush carpeting and tinted windows. Specs slept in the back; I took the front. Next morning, he woke up screaming.

I panicked and pulled my gun, wiping sleep from my eyes. All I had was a little five-shot snub-nosed. 38 belly gun I’d taken off the mangled corpse of a cop in Ravenna a few days before. “What? What? What?” I said, looking for a target, anything.

Specs was breathing hard in the backseat. “Just had a dream…did I cry out?”

“Yeah, you fucking cried out, asshole. I thought you were being murdered.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Nash. Sometimes I get these bad dreams. Just corpses everywhere, you know? Sometimes I dream about my sister, about Darlene.”

Poor Specs. I didn’t want to get him going on his dead sister again. In those days I still had a watch on my wrist-a nice Indiglo Timex that Shelly had given me for my birthday-and I hadn’t gone native yet and started clocking the time by the position of the sun. Watch said it was ten in the morning…but inside the car it was pretty dark. I thought maybe it was the tinted windows, but it wasn’t that at all.

The windows, all the windows, of the Cadillac were covered in something dark. I didn’t get it. I pulled off some tepid water I had in a bottle, tried to clear my head.

“What’s all over the windows?” Specs asked me and I could already hear the paranoia creeping into his voice. Poor guy. Specs was a good person in most ways, but he was paranoid as hell. He saw the boogeyman around every corner and who could really blame him?

“I don’t know,” I said.

The Caddy had old-style crank windows. A huge vehicle back when they’d rolled them off the assembly lines in Detroit with plenty of leg room. I tried the windows and so did Specs, but they were jammed up. So I did what I didn’t really want to do: I opened my door.

The world was red.

The streets, the buildings, even the trees and stoplight were fucking red like they’d been dipped in red ink. It was insane. Specs and I got out and walked around. Everything was covered in that crusty red film. I had never seen anything like it. It looked like the sky had rained blood during the night. I walked over to a spreading oak tree and, sure enough, a few drops of red were still dripping from the branches.

“It’s blood, Nash. Jesus Christ, it’s blood,” Specs said, clinging so close to me I thought he was going to kiss me.

I shoved him away. “It ain’t blood. It was some weird rain. Like an acid rain or something.”

But I wasn’t even sure that I believed it. Something inside me clenched tight as we walked those blood red streets. There was no life or movement anywhere. Just that hazy sky above and the graveyard stillness and all that red. It was like some kind of expressionistic painting or something and it made me go cold inside.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Specs said.

“No, I don’t. But you’re gonna tell me, I’m sure.”

“It’s an omen,” Specs said. “It’s a bad omen, Nash. Real bad.”

And on that point, I believed him.

We walked for a good hour. After a time the red was just gone. Either the sun dried it up or it had only rained like that in particular parts of the city. I didn’t know and I really didn’t want to know. So we walked and Specs jabbered on non-stop as was his way. We didn’t see anyone on Cedar Avenue, just desertion and devastation. Why I thought Cleveland would be any better than Youngstown, I did not know.

“Too bad we couldn’t have kept the Caddy,” Specs said. “That was one sweet ride.”

“Sure,” I said, scoping out the streets ahead of us, “one sweet ride with two flat tires and a dead engine.”

“Well, it was sweet. You know it was. Would have been cool to tool around the city in that.”

“Sure, we could’ve picked up some chicks,” I said.

The city was dead. At least what we’d seen of it. Another graveyard. The rusted hulks of abandoned cars were everywhere: at the curbs, pulled up onto sidewalks, flipped over in the roads, smashed-up. I figured someone was around-or had been-because a lot of tires had been scavenged. Most likely for fires. Nothing burned like a tire.

What I saw of Cleveland was intact. I saw some neighborhoods that had burned or were fire-scarred, but not like in Youngstown. Entire sections of the city had been fire bombed to wipe out the infections and those that carried them. This did not look so systematic. Just ordinary fires, I thought.

Still, there was destruction. Buildings had collapsed into heaps of rubble that blocked thoroughfares. Houses had been burned flat. There were open cellars everywhere flooded with water and leaves, the homes and buildings that had once sat upon them nowhere to be seen. Weeds were growing up in the sidewalks. Telephone poles had fallen, some only standing because their wires held them up. Storefronts were fire damaged, plate glass windows shattered, brick facades riddled with bullet holes.

There were skeletons everywhere. Sprawled in yards, tossed in gutters, some still sitting behind the wheels of cars fully articulated. But all of them bird-pecked and gleaming white. Not just human skeletons either, but those of dogs and cats and rats and more than a few that were so unnatural looking I couldn’t be sure what they were from. Bones were the only true raw material of the brave new world and they were in abundance.

After awhile, Specs and I took a break.

We pushed a heap of remains from a peeling bench and took a break. I had an olive drab Army knapsack that I used for scavenging. We each had a can of cold Dinty Moore Beef Stew and washed it down with warm Mountain Dew Code Red. That was our lunch.

I pulled off my Dew. “We gotta get us some wheels, Specs,” I told him, because The Shape had whispered in my head that we had to keep moving west. And I wasn’t about to walk.

“Yeah, too bad about that Caddy.”

“We don’t need a pimpmobile,” I told him. “We need something rugged. A four-wheel drive or something. Roads are going to be bad now.”

We’d driven motorcycles into Cleveland from Youngstown. Then we’d abandoned them in Garfield Heights after some big birds swooped down on us and stole Specs’ hat. I don’t know what they were. Looked like ravens. But huge, mutated. We decided after that we needed something with a roof over our heads.

“You ever wonder where we’re going to be in a year from now, Nash?”

“No, I don’t. I got enough problems here and now.”

“I think about it sometimes. I wonder if maybe out there somewhere there’s still cities with real people in ‘em.”

I didn’t even bother speculating on that. I finished my stew and threw the can in the street. We survivors were terrible litterbugs. I smoked and sipped off my Dew. We’d looted the Dew from a deli in Garfield Heights. Everything was long rotten in there, but the canned stuff and soda was still good. Civilization may fall, but the Dew goes on forever.