The Killing Floor

“This graph shows the effects of detonation of a one hundred fifty kiloton device at ground level in North Miami,” Travis murmurs. “That’s the average size of a single warhead in the U.S. nuclear arsenal.”

“Speak up, Dr. Price,” Goodall says.

“It’s about ten to fifteen times the size of the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Everything in the center ring would be exposed to explosive force equaling fifteen pounds of pressure per square inch of overpressure. Everything would be destroyed. People, buildings, everything.”

The bomb explodes in an intensely hot fireball, creating a giant crater hundreds of feet deep and sucking tons of earth into a massive mushroom cloud. Within the blast, buildings and people, normal and Infected alike, vaporize in a flash, becoming part of the cloud. Structures and bodies fly apart in the earthquake and sudden change in pressure. Debris rockets through the air with the force of bullets. Shattered windows turn into flying knives of glass. Miles away, thousands of fires burn, merging into raging firestorms. Flesh melts in the fierce heat; internal organs cook; brains boil. The smog blots out the sun. Dirt and ash rain down as radioactive particulates for miles in every direction, even farther on the winds.

“At a little over a mile from the blast, buildings would suffer heavy damage, and intense heat from the blast would start numerous fires. At a little over two and a half miles, covering El Portal in the south, Pinewood, Golden Glades, most houses—would be—crushed flat—”

His stomach leaps into his throat. He stumbles toward a metal garbage can and vomits. Behind him, he hears a woman mutter, Christ.

“Excuse me, I’m not well,” Travis says, wiping his mouth.

“You may continue when you’re able,” says the President, and turns to ask another man at the table a question about his afternoon schedule.

Travis does not hear the answer. His stomach lurches again, producing a trickle of bile. He spits several times before standing and facing the room with watery eyes, his face burning with embarrassment.

“I apologize, Mr. President. I may have a touch of flu.”

“Tell us about the fallout,” the President says.

“Fallout,” Travis says mechanically, as if he has never heard the word before. “Yes. For a surface burst, outside of ground zero, the area impacted by the blast and the initial nuclear radiation will be less severe than, say, an air burst of similar yield. Local fallout can be dangerous over a large downwind area, however—”

A single gunshot cracks, startling them. The President’s advisers gasp, some already half standing. The President glares at the door.

People are shouting outside in the waiting room.

“John,” the President says to one of his people. “Go take a look.”

“I don’t think we should open the door, Mr. President. You would be exposed.”

“It’s all right, John. I think our people have things under control now.”

The door opens from the outside, giving Travis a clear view. The waiting room is filled with men and women in black body armor. One of the Secret Service agents kneels with his hands on his head, while the other lies grimacing on the floor with a soldier hunched over him, applying a tourniquet to his leg. The other men in suits cower in their chairs.

The President watches them, his face turning from red to purple.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?”

The soldiers glance at him. The wounded agent cries out in pain. Two men in desert combat uniforms enter the conference room, pistols holstered on their hips.

“Mr. President,” the first man says, taking off his cap.

“General,” the President says. “Glad you’re here. What’s the meaning of all this?”

General Donald McGregor, the chairman of the joint chiefs, is a wiry stringbean of a man compared to the President, but just as intimidating. Travis once met him during nuclear terrorism exercises. He is a ruthless son of a bitch, much like Fielding, and with incredible power at his command.

The General pauses in the doorway, taking in the red rings radiating from downtown Miami on the screen. Travis steps away from it, trying to disappear. McGregor frowns. His eyes flicker to meet the President’s.

“That, sir,” he says, pointing at the screen, “is not going to happen.”

The man behind the General whistles. Soldiers in black body armor file into the room, carrying automatic weapons.

Ray

Unsure of whether he is struggling toward air or plunging deeper into abyss, the man swims against warm tidal currents. Light sparkles in the thick, murky depths. He lets go and drifts weightless toward consciousness.

Ray awakes gasping for air, sucking it greedily into his lungs.

The light, so bright it is blinding.

He does not know anything; it is like being born.

Mysterious dark shapes coalesce into normal things. A television set. A bookshelf packed with books, knickknacks and a bowling trophy. A table lamp. A large picture window covered in smeared handprints, making the world outside appear shrouded in gray fog.

He closes his eyes and tries to return to those warm currents, but his curiosity betrays him, forcing him up into a sitting position. Throbbing pain at the base of his skull makes him groan. He looks at his dirty hands and remembers how he got here.

I’m supposed to be dead. How long have I been on this couch?

The light outside—Christ, it’s the sun.

He survived the night. The Infected are gone. He touches the monster in his side, now just a raw, achy swelling covered in flaky skin. His touch ignites a horrible itch inside the growth, which scratching just makes worse.

Fine. Itch all you want, you little bastard. I beat you. I won. I’m alive.

His body rejected the growth, or perhaps the growth rejected him. Too much smoking or drinking, who knows. He never heard of someone becoming infected by a hopper and surviving it. Then again, after Infection, Ray’s world got a whole lot smaller. Maybe people survive it all the time in Colorado. Maybe California has no epidemic at all. He wouldn’t know.

The floor is covered with empty bottles and jars of food and multiple sets of muddy footprints. People brought him food and water while he slept. His mouth tastes like raw sewage and his teeth feel mossy. His pants are crusted with his own waste. The ammonia smell of his piss makes his eyes water. Something is not right here. How long have I been out?

Feeling frail and shaky, he peels off his clothes, hardened to the consistency of cardboard, and retches at the sight of his waste caked in his pants and clinging to his ass and thighs. It feels good to be naked, however; the house is hot and his body is covered in a slick sheen of sweat.

After gaining his feet, he plods into the kitchen, half expecting to see his ghostly mother doing dishes in the sink, and pulls a squat, ugly looking steak knife from a drawer. Safety first. The window is still open and the outside air smells fresh and clean. He finds a bathroom and spends several minutes examining himself in the mirror with blunt surprise. A gaunt lunatic stares back at him. His acne-scarred cheeks are sunken. His handlebar mustache is now part of a beard. His shaggy hair has grown even longer, greasy and lank, a full-on Jesus mane.

Has he been here for days, weeks? Who was feeding him this whole time?

I’m alive, says the leering lunatic in the mirror.

Dude, you are seriously fucked up.

His caregivers left him two buckets of water. He’s not sure if these are any good for drinking but they look all right for washing. Squatting in the tub, Ray soaks a toilet scrubber with tepid water and liquid soap and scrubs his body until the water turns black and he feels somewhat clean. He scrapes his mossy teeth with his fingernails, gargles and spits the mess into the sink.

Upstairs, he finds a T-shirt and jeans that fit, and puts them on. His STEELERS hat is riddled with charred