Horror 100 Volume 2

Exit Interview

"How do you feel?" asked Ethan.

"I dunno Ethan, how am I supposed to feel right now?" Jonathan snapped. The interview was just getting started and he was already feeling like a lab rat, but then again he supposed that's exactly what he was.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't know what else to say," Dr. Walters sighed. "I think we both know that there's nothing here that covers this situation," he said as he looked down at the stack of Psychology books that were piled carelessly at his feet.

Three months ago Dr. Ethan Walters earned his keep by playing the role of psychotherapist to bored, frustrated housewives of the Upper Westside. His days in the office were long but, it afforded him a life of wine cellars and frequent trips to the Caribbean. Now that life seemed to have happened to someone else and a long time ago. The awards and diploma on his wall seemed like relics of an ancient civilization. Psychotherapists were no longer needed in this world but hunter gatherer types were in great demand, sharpshooters even more so. So much had changed in so short a period of time. Here he was in his office interviewing Jonathan Knowles, friend and neighbor, with a big Ruger .357 Blackhawk sitting within easy reach. He was trying to cope with this new situation by doing the only thing he still knew how to do: probe analyze and then...digest.

"Maybe we can gain some insight into the nature of all this, something useful I can pass along. I imagine this can't be easy for you Jon, but what's happening to you is going to happen anyway. There isn't anything either one of us can do to stop it. The more we learn about this the better chance we have of being able to cure it."

Jonathan felt that he was being fed galactic levels of bullshit. He knew that the social infrastructure was falling apart so rapidly that by the end of the month the few sane people left would be too preoccupied with the busy work of day to day survival to care one whit about what happened in a double-wide trailer. Jonathan was non-confrontational by nature and usually avoided needless arguments if he could help it. It was a trait he always disliked about himself, it made him feel small and cowardly, but at the same time he could sense a different, more aggressive, nature begin to well up in him, one that was the result of the new world they were all flung into.

"How much time you think I have left?" Jonathan asked.

"Depending on how much you weigh..."

"Ethan, I wasn't bitten by a fucking rattlesnake! I don't think this will work like a poison. I was bitten by Rosie, my wife, my dead wife." his Adams' apple started to work up and down rapidly. Ethan had seen the signs countless times before, the man was about to start sobbing.

"I'm sorry Jon. I didn't mean to be so clinical. It could be five minutes or five hours. I honestly don't know." He said and glanced at his gun out the corner of his eye. Originally Jonathan tried to convince Ethan to tie him down to the couch but Ethan refused. Now he was beginning to have second thoughts. It was true he had no idea how long the change would take. There were no medical formulas or calculations he could make and that troubled him. As far as he knew the rate of change followed no rhyme or reason. He'd seen small children go slowly and big husky adults go rapidly, it seemed as if the more meat you had on your bones the quicker the disease ate you up.

Leave the bones for Henry Jones 'cause Henry don't eat no meat! His mind cackled. He quickly placed a hand over his mouth to stifle a poorly timed guffaw. For the first time he seriously considered the fragile state of his own sanity. After killing men, women and children alike he began to wonder just how much of his own mental stability was left. He felt that the world was taking little bites out of him just as sure as the zombies would...eventually.

Zombies...WTF!

The agnostic in him stubbornly refused to believe what he'd seen. Around a month ago the dead started to walk and their numbers were growing exponentially. Those still alive turned to drugs, alcohol or God for answers. Ethan had his couch.