Julianne's Kitchen Nightmares (Patreon)

Julianne lowered the Beretta and exhaled for the first time in what seemed like an hour. Mrs. Winthrop hit the floor with a thud, semi-coagulated blood oozing from a hole in her forehead. Julianne stepped over and kicked the old woman’s foot. Nothing. 

“Sorry, Mrs. W. You were the best neighbor a gal could ever ask for. You didn’t deserve Zeta. Lots of people may, but not you.”

Drops of blood hit the hardwood floor. Looking down, she lost her breath again. A sizable gash from tip to first knuckle oozed blood. Brown fucking blood.

“No no no no.”

Her legs went weak, and she fell to her knees. A quick jabbing pain rose up her finger, and she gripped the base of it like that was keeping thousands of viruses from speeding through her veins.

“What do i do?“

She always talked out loud. She was her mother’s daughter. By the time she could speak, Julianne talked aloud to herself. It was a mark of sanity her father would say. It was a marvel he wasn’t driven crazy by the two women in the house, but then again, he was nuts for working for the NSA.

She squeezed the throbbing finger until she drew red blood. Beautiful, thin red blood. There was time but not much.

In two-fifths of a second, she calculated a dozen scenarios and only one kept her alive. Her Algorithms professor taught her how to assign weight to decisions. She had smoking-hot eyes too. 

“Don’t get sidetracked.”

That damn virus was efficient and powerful. Already, it was moving upstream through her blood like someone running on top of a train in the opposite direction. It wasn’t the solution she wanted, but it took the top spot. Numero uno. The best prime number. Ampu-fucking-tation.

Her finger was going cold, which she took as a bad sign. 

“Tourniquette.”

She ripped out the hair tie letting her hair spilled out in a messy way, and she tied the rubber band around the base of her finger until it turned blue.

“Nightmare. I’m in a damn nightmare.”

She ran to her desk and flipped open her toolbox, the one Deter sent her as a housewarming gift. Her favorite utility knife stood out among the rest like Excalibur waiting to be pulled from the stone. With it in hand, she ran to the kitchen.

“One shot. Hurry.”

Slamming her hand on the $100-a-square-foot-granite countertop the stupid realtor pointed out four times in the walkthrough, she extended the lone, injured finger, drew out the blade, jammed the tip below the knuckle, and chopped.

With a wail, she buckled against the counter. Red filled her field of vision, and all she knew was pain. She thrashed, blood spurting from the fresh stump. Razor blades sliced the skin so perfectly no edges were there to clot. Same thing was happening here. 

“Oh God. I’m going to bleed to death.”

She stumbled to the overhead cabinet and found a bottle of cherry vodka leftover from New Years. Since she quit drinking, booze stayed around until she had company and that was rare. Jason was the last? Who knows? Her mind was a jumble of randomness. 

She untwisted the bottle with her teeth and drank it straight. Frank would understand the gravity of the situation. It’s not like she could call him and admit to drinking. Was it off the wagon or on the wagon? Old guys and their crazy expressions. If the outbreak ended she’d tell everyone at a meeting but AA doesn’t meet in the apocalypse. 

After downing a few healthy swallows, she sucked in air through her teeth and doused her stump with the alcohol. The pain hit her like a kick to the gut. She dropped to the floor and by her feet, a hand towel lie next to her. She wrapped it around the injured digit. The cloth turned thick with red. Her head tilted forward and though her finger pulsated, her senses were dulled. A few shots of vodka after years of sobriety really did the trick 

“Just gonna sleep for a minute.”.

—-

Sudden shouts from the hallway roused her awake. Three short pops—the dull report of gunfire. 

“What the—“

Voices from the hallway called out. 

“Take everything. We’ll sort it later.”

It didn’t take a masters in math to add up what’s happening. Looters, scavengers, hunters. Society was breaking down and people were already living up to their repressed primal nature. 

Her chin was damp from spittle. Blood had seeped onto the floor, darkening a spot on the hardwood. The digital clock on her microwave read 4:22. 

“Can’t believe I slept for two hours.”

More gunshots. 

She stood and caught the counter with her good hand. The room was a carnival funhouse spinning. She slapped her face, hard, and took a deep breath. The room settled, and the voices in the hallway grew louder. 

"I gotta get the fuck outta here."

She ran to the bedroom and grabbed the mess of clothes hanging inside the closet. They clanked as she threw them to the bed, some still wearing security tags. A mirror on the back wall showed her image in its cracked face. No one messed with cracked mirrors. Sliding it away, she reached into the hidden compartment for her to-go bag. She pulled up her hoodie to cover her head, slung the bag over her shoulder, and ran out of her apartment only stopping once for her laptop. 

—-

“Try to get high...interference...too much traffic.”

Deter’s voice crackled through her EarPods, worse than a speaker at a Taco Bell drive thru. 

“Give me a minute.”

Her condo building shared a city block with an Excelsior Prime. Armed guards stood outside in armored suits with riot shotguns. She pivoted the to-go pack and rummaged through a pocket. License and Inspection, City Planning Office, CDC Field Operative. She yanked the last one out. 

Stepping to the entryway, she held up the badge. “Jennifer Silva, CDC.”

The guard, a tall, rhinoceros of a man with a sunken face and glassy eyes stared at the credentials. 

“I’ll need to call the hotel manager.”

“I need to collect blood samples from infected guests—“

His eyes grew big and focused at something behind Julianne. One of his huge paws shoved her behind him, and all she heard was the drum of shotgun fire. She covered her ears and crawled on her knees towards the lobby doors. A thunder of growls came from the street as a megaphone called orders from somewhere high up. 

“Everyone, please remain calm. Hotel security has everything under control. “

Julianne rose to one foot and lifted her head. A strikingly fit woman in a navy-blue suit giving her the look of a 1950s stewardess stood on the concierge desk with an actual megaphone. 

“Your safety is our top concern. Soon, we will be serving refreshments in our Concord Ballroom.”

Julianne heard glass shatter behind her and the body of a security guard flew past her, landed on his back, and slid on the parquet floor. When he came to rest, he shook off glass shards and fired his shotgun. She felt something hit her, wetness, like someone had tossed a water balloon at her. When she took her arms down , she saw the body of an infected beside her though it was missing its head and part of its chest. A brown pool was swelling across the floor, syrup-like in its speed. 

The hotel manager with the megaphone hopped off her perch and helped Julianne up. “I’m so sorry that happened. Let me get you a towel. Leave your bag, and I’ll have someone take it to your room. “

“I already checked out.” Julianne shook her arm, sending off a heavy clot of gore which hit the tile with a wet smack. “Can I use a bathroom?”

The manager escorted her to a back hallway and pointed out a private bathroom. When she returned to the lobby, she closed the door, leaving Julianne alone to take the employee elevator. As it ascended the high rise, Julianne stripped off her soiled clothes, down to her birthday suit. She shivered in the cold recirculated air but let out a relaxed sigh. She had felt warm since her self-surgery, and though she thought back to the A4. Fever on the WHO’s symptom list for Zeta infection, she knew the virus was not incubating inside of her. It just couldn’t be. She started on prophylactic antivirals two days ago. She did an IV of interferon last night while she checked TASMUS (the US Tactical Area Communications System). Then she took a bubble bath to relax. Amazing. She even used lavender that crazy lady down the hall from her condo sold her. But Julianne was hot. Sauna hot. Hot Yoga hot. Ghost pepper chili hot. On floor 19 she took out her leopard print bikini top and denim shorts, and the doors opened on the roof. 

A blank gray flat top welcomed her. The low hum of HVAC units mixed with the whistle of high winds, and Julianne felt as frigid as a shot of vodka in Siberia. Two fighter jets flew overhead, shaking the roof and popping her eardrums.

“Damn, forgot about Deter.”

Walking to the edge of the building, she dangled her legs over the edge and opened her laptop. WiFi signals in the area bounced around, and she couldn’t connect. She drew out her satellite dish from her pack and plugged it into her laptop. Instant signal. 

More fighter jets flew overhead, and she had to catch the dish from rattling off the rooftop. When the jets were gone, a long mechanical whine fell across the roof, leaving it in silence. The HVAC units were off. 

“Too early to lose power. Someone must’ve turned them off.”

She brought up a terminal and felt the instant power of her satellite dish. Only five seconds passed and Deter’s face filled the screen. 

“You handsome, handsome man.”

He smiled and snorted a laugh. “Are you wearing a bikini top?!”

“I’m hot.”

“Yeah, you are.” He snorted again.

“No, I’m warm.”

His smile turned to a nervous stammer. “Are you…?”

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “I’m fine.”

Deter’s smile didn’t return. He looked off screen. Julianne heard furious tapping.

“How long ago were you exposed?” he asked with all the bedside manor of a triage nurse.

“I’m fine.” She barked it out and immediately cringed. “Sorry.”

“Okay, we’ll move on. We have only one thing to talk about.”

Julianne felt tingly. She sat up straight, put on her favorite pink-heart sunglasses, and smiled to the cam. “SurvNet.”