Tim Curran - Biohazard

When the world ended on Thursday, October 17^th, everyone ran blind and screaming with panic that it had finally happened, that Armageddon had finally been visited upon the sons and daughters of man. The optimistic were shocked; the pessimistic vindicated. The religious said it was the time of the Rapture. So as they waited for Jesus to call them home, the rest of us concentrated on staying alive.

No easy thing with the fallout.

The marauding militias.

The roving gangs.

The National Guard and special police units whose job it was to put them both down. Martial Law was declared country-wide. People were gunned down in the streets. Raped. Murdered. Assaulted. It went on and on.

And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, by the end of the first week?seven days shy of Halloween?nuclear winter descended just as the theorists had always predicted. So much dust and debris had been tossed up into the atmosphere that the sun did not come out for almost a month. It was sheer blackness during that time and bitter subzero cold. And snow. It snowed for weeks on end. Nobody would ever know how many were killed off in those dire freezing weeks.

In the Midwest, the survivors-hardy northern types-dealt with it the way they dealt with it every winter. They burned wood. They scavenged pellet stoves, kerosene heaters, anything to keep them warm.

Then the sun came out again.

Just a ghost of it for the first few weeks. But then as the debris rained back to earth, much of it charged with deadly fallout, the sun assumed its ordinary cycles and though it was still cold, it was much warmer than it had been. And at least it wasn’t pitch black twenty-four/seven.

Towards the end of December, a weird heat wave spread across the country and the snow melted and the rains came. Disease, which had been kept in check for the most part by the cold, went absolutely viral, raging in every population, creating pandemics and plagues and the already teetering civilian populations began to die off in numbers.

But some of us stayed alive.

And this is how we did it.

When I close my eyes, I can still smell Youngstown.

Isn’t that funny? I grew up there, played high school football there-go Blue Devils-and worked there, got married there…but now after all that, I can only remember the stink.

That invasive smell of rot and refuse.

It crawled up your nose and down into your belly, so that even with your eyes closed you knew you were in the city-rotting garbage and burning wood, fuel oil and the unburied dead. I figured, back then, that I should’ve bottled it, kept it on a shelf somewhere so that if the world ever started turning again, then I could pop the cork anytime I was feeling low and take a whiff. Then I could say to myself, yeah, maybe your life sucks, but it don’t smell like Youngstown.

My wife had the gruesome twosome: radiation sickness and cholera. She got the former from the fallout coming down in the rains that swept the city for weeks, flooding the streets and backing up sewers and washing infected waste into yards and homes. She got the latter because like so many others she was weak from radiation sickness and the fact that the city’s water supply was absolutely contaminated.

There was no point in bringing her to the hospital because they were vastly overcrowded with the sick and dying, corridors packed with people waiting for treatment, hospital incinerators blazing like blast furnaces as contaminated dressings, waste products, body fluids, and corpses were fed to the flames. The medical health system of Ohio, like the rest of the country, was inadequate as the infected and sick inundated it. It simply couldn’t handle the sheer numbers.

It wasn’t prepared.

And as drugs and medical supplies stopped coming in-factories around the country shutting down, commerce grinding to a halt-there wasn’t enough to go around. Somewhere during the process, the staffs themselves sickened.

You get the picture.

Anyway, the fallout had already made Shelly pretty sick, but it was the cholera that hammered the final nail in her coffin. I washed her, medicated her, fed her, held her through many long nights.

Cholera is a nasty business.

Vomiting and diarrhea, painful cramping and dehydration, fevers and delusions. It’s not pretty. I treated her the way the hospital told me to and with what they gave me. I made sure she drank lots of fluids. I dissolved packets of sodium, potassium, glucose, and chloride in her water, made sure she got it down. Gave her injections of antibiotics?tetracycline, ampicillin, chloramphenicol?but mostly I just held her and soothed her while something inside, maybe hope and faith, withered and went black like flower petals on a crypt floor.

It was horrible.

I kept remembering that in August we’d vacationed at Chesapeake Bay on Smith Island and things had been good, very good. The sun had been bright and the water had been sparkling and I rubbed suntan oil on her back. She was bronze in the sun and her eyes were a deep Caribbean blue. We made love at night and beach-bummed during the day and ate clams in the evening.

And six months later she died trembling in my arms.

I kept watch over her corpse for days.

It was some kind of twisted wake, I guess. I lit candles and talked to her, alternately crying and screaming out her name, but mostly drinking whiskey in some numb alcoholic stupor, my mind sucked into a whirlpooling psychosis of grief and guilt and denial.

Down below, in the streets, the corpse wagons rolled and the crazies rioted and what was left of the police put them down in a grisly baptismal of blood and then were themselves put down.

“They won’t get you, Shelly,” I told her. “I won’t let them.”

It was getting worse day by day.

Four months now. Four months and I was still in Youngstown, hoping, maybe, that humanity would regroup and that we’d be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. But it wasn’t going to happen and what was spread out on the couch was testament to that.

I knew I should have gotten out.

I should have gotten both of us out of the city?maybe across the state line into PA, my sister in Newcastle?but I kept holding onto some crazy and utterly fucked-up idea that the end of the world was going to pass like a bout of the flu. Civilization had shit its pants and vomited its guts out, but it would pass. The fever would run its course.

That’s how deep in denial I was. For when those bombs fell…and baby, they came down like rice at a wedding…the world ripped the seat right out of its pants like a fat lady bending over and there was no seamstress that could hope to stitch it back up again.

And now Shelly was dead.

Dead.

She was pale as bleached stone, her body shriveled and ghastly in death. Outside, a fearsome gonging rolled through the neighborhood. The bell of St. Mark’s: Bong, bong, bong, bring out yer dead!

But I wasn’t about to.

Not Shelly. I’d never let them get her. I’d never let them burn her in one of those terrible pits with the others. The idea was just grotesque to the extreme and I could not allow it to happen. But I couldn’t sit with her day after day. Not only because it was seriously demented, but because eventually they would come for her. There had to be something I could do. Then I got the idea of burying her in secret. Such a thing was unlawful, it was banned. If people saw you they would report you and if the police and civil authorities caught you they would shoot you. But that only made it all that much more necessary.