H1Z1 - Chapter 1

It started innocently enough, I guess. I mean, it's a flu virus, right? How bad can that be?

Yes, I remember the Spanish flu outbreak of 1918, yes, there have been several outbreaks since then and a lot of people have died, but it's 2009 for goodness' sake! We've made such huge medical advances since then - and we can't handle a little outbreak of some new flu virus?

I took it in stride. Went to work. Washed my hands. Went "tch tch" at news reports coming from Mexico about the spread of the virus. Now big deal, right? It's just the flu - I had my flu mist this year, I am good to go!

Then the reports started changing. At first the chatter all seemed to point to it being a myth - I mean, really? Zombies? You're kidding, right?

I kept living my life. Kept going to work. Washed my hands like the news said to do. Stayed clear of large public venues where snot-nosed children put their hands on everything - you know, Wad-Mart. I thought I was safe.

I was wrong. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Ironically, it was a trip to Wad-Mart that brought the reality of the new and very different viral strain, H1Z1, to light for me - that one fateful trip.

As usual, I climbed into my SUV on a sunny but somewhat wind-swept Saturday morning with the intent of hitting the store for some shells and heading out to the skeet range. I brought my son with me just to give the wife a break - besides, I could rent him a 20-gauge at the range and let him shoot with me (she didn't know I would do this and I wanted to keep things that way, but the boy needs to learn to hunt!).

Our neighborhood is quiet on an a Saturday at 8:00 a.m. no matter what, but this morning I didn't even hear dogs barking, which seemed fine with my two furry knuckleheads, who piled into the back of the truck like it was Christmas morning and they could smell a huge pile of dog treats wrapped in a present. I absolutely love the enthusiasm of my silly dogs, but sometimes, I wonder how much actual brain action is going on in those furry skulls.

The four of us, me, the boy and the doggy doggy headed out - my thoughts were not on what I was doing, but I really couldn't tell you now what it was that was whispering in the back of my mind and making all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

There was almost no traffic - a fire engine whipped by me at the stop light - lights on but no siren, but beyond that, I only saw a few other early morning adventurers out on the road. Again, not that unusual, it is, after all, a fairly small city.

The closer we got to the store, the more the dogs seemed to be picking up on whatever it was that had my hackles raised, because theirs began to raise, too. The bitch, Sarah, started to whine as I turned into the Wad-Mart parking lot.

"What's a matter, baby?" I crooned, using that sweet, soft voice every dog owner uses with their pet when it seems nervous or scared. Funny, that voice - you could be the toughest, meanest, baddest-assed biker punk on the planet, but you talk in that funny, sweet voice when your dog is upset. Go figure.

Sasha looked at me with her head cocked as Steve, our male, started whining, too.

"It's OK, babies," I crooned, looking at my son, who was petting Sasha and crooning to her as well. He just shrugged and kept trying to soother her.

Not too busy here this morning, thank goodness. I am never a fan of the huge super-we-have-it-all stores in the first place, but I sincerely loathe Wad-Mart. There's something about the parade of skinny idiots in wife-beaters with mullets and overweight, frazzled mommies with 27 1/2 kids that simply puts my teeth on edge. My strategy? Get in, go straight to what I want and get out.

As I made sure my son had cracked his window for the dogs, I noticed that it was eerily quiet here, too. I mean quiet. 'You know, this is that moment in the cheesy horror movie where the sacrificial (your fave here - bimbo, minority, dumb jock, etc ...) whoever goes, "Yeah, too quiet ...", I thought to myself as I locked the door. I almost said the same to my son, but refrained.

At ten, Bill is my spitting image. It's like me-redux but with lighter hair. Same eyes, same chin, same bit of paunch and tendency toward love handles when we don't get out enough. The only thing that marks us apart when you look at photos of my tenth year and him, today, is a scar on my chin just below the lip. I got that one when I was three or four - I fell on my face and shoved my bottom teeth through my lip. I can still remember having stitches sewn into it; not a favorite memory of mine.

This morning, we were both dressed for the range - jeans, light shooting jackets with shoulder pads, he in a favorite, smelly beat-up ball cap, me in my empire Stetson. My shotgun was dutifully racked in the driver's side window in the back of the SUV - barrel NOT pointed at my head as I drove. I was thinking about picking up a 20-gauge of his own for Bill this morning, but still wasn't sure how I'd get that idea through to my pacifist wife, who only rolled over and mumbled when I got up at 6:00 a.m. to shower, shave and throw some bacon and eggs on the stove for the boy and I.

We, "The Bobsy Twins" as my Mother called us, walked toward the entrance of this disgusting, over commercialized, price-cutting, wage raping establishment, alone. Utterly alone. One of the dogs gave us a single bark as we walked off from the truck, as if to say, "Wait! You don't know what you're getting in to!"

'I know," I thought. 'I've gone through this before. I can handle the idiots at Wad-Mart."

Bill looked back at the truck, biting his lip like he does when some thing's bothering him.

"Dad?" He asked. "Can we bring the dogs in? They look lonely."

"Son, you know we can't bring them in here," I replied. "But we'll stop at the Pet-Mart on the way out-of-town and we can take them in to buy them treats, okay?"

This seemed to mollify him and he reached out to grab my hand as we walked through the automatic doors. I love the fact that, even though he's ten now, and a Big Boy, he'll still reach out to hold me hand in a crowded place, or when we're all alone.