DELERIUM

"Hey Rog, how much milk?"
"None, Kate."
"Oh, yea, that's right. Good thing too, since we just ran out."
It never ceased to amaze Roger how, despite two years of marriage now, Kate still had not managed to remember that he took his coffee black. Many would be quick to personify a man with his car, shoes, suit, or even watch; but not Roger. Roger was defined simply by his coffee, dark and strong. He was no stranger to the gym, and found it almost perfectly convenient that he could work-out and work all in the the same building. It's been noted that since the dawn of technology, man has confined himself to boxes. Though, whether Roger held this with any scrutiny was of no matter, for if there were any standard for dwellable boxes, Roger's would have been it. Made possible by years of reluctant investments, he was able to call his three bedroom multi-level bungalow a home. And by the same device, was able to call the new Accord out front his preferred mode of transportation. As for the box that was responsible for every other item Roger owned, along with his pride and self-esteem, it stood like a matriarch of pride and glory on the corner of 5th and Main; the Stowcounty Central Police Department.

"Hun, can you make me some toast too?"
"Rog, remember, the toaster filaments are burned out?"
"oh... yea.... looks like it's another oatmeal morning for me then. Plug in the kettle, would ya?", Roger asked his wife.

"For all the taxes they collect from us, you'd think they'd be able to make a decent city newspaper..." Roger, slightly aggravated, mumbled into his morning paper, which, as they did almost every morning, branded his fingers with their non-cohesive black ink. Most would simply take that as an indicator to start switching over to the Stowcounty Sun, but not Roger. He was a practical man, and had no bias against the free city papers. He figured news is news, so why cut another corner off your paycheck to pay for the same news the city paper can give you for free. Roger decided to ignore this seemingly obvious logic and passed it off as applying too much pressure to the paper. That reasoning may have held some truth in this particular morning... Roger, usually not the one to openly display frustration, sometimes found himself clenching objects so tightly that his fingernails and knuckles would turn white. He promised himself he'd have to stop doing that (especially on newspapers).

Contrary to the general populous of Stowcounty, morning was usually a serene and peaceful time for Roger. He enjoyed getting up with the sun and letting the sights and sounds of a waking world re-ignite his senses for the day to come. So Roger came to the conclusion that it was his breakfast palette that was putting a slight damper on his morning.

Can't have cereal because there's no more milk. Can't have toast because the toasters broken. Can't have eggs because Kate's allergic to the yolk., he thought with self-pity. Though he never held it against Kate, he missed his sunny-side ups, his scrambleds, and his omelets, and would take every opportunity to grab some when he was on the road. But then again, he had nothing against oatmeal, it was the breakfast of champions, and he decided he would have to champion his breakfast this morning. The flavour of oatmeal (or rather lack of it), could easily be filled with the flavour of morning air, he decided to take a quick step outside while waiting for his oatmeal.

The view from the porch was not particularly awe inspiring, but it still gave him a chance to play his morning game of "what's it" (barely stimulating, but mornings always started off light). Living in the neighbourhood for almost three years now allowed Roger to get akin with its sights and sounds, both the good ones, and the bad ones.

"chiirp, chirrp, whirt whirt whirt, cluuuok, cluuuok"
Roger easily recognized this as the little brown birds that made themselves at home in the gutters of almost every home on his block.

"wooooop, arwoooop, zeeeer, zeeeer, zeeeer"
Roger had familiarized himself with this sound the day Mr. Rugensbum first cruised the neighbourhood in his new Lexus. He never quite found the irony of old farts being able to purchase trendy cars much amusing or comical. He always perceived it as a cruel joke told by capitalism. He, hard working at 32 years of age, was just able to provide the standard, yet this old fart, seemingly outliving his use for fast and exotic cars, was able to purchase one, with money left over to get all the custom features too.... including a car alarm that's as loud as it is expensive. Spotting a bird perched on Mr. Rugensbum's roof across the road, Roger was able to use his police intuition to deduce that the culprit for the alarm was probably nothing but a small, white, projectile launched from the airborne sparrow. That made Roger laugh a little just picturing Mr. Rugensbum wiping bird shit off his newly tinted windows!

"Slam! clunk... clunk... clunk."
Roger dreaded that sound, because he knew what it entailed. Old man Briggerdale was not one to leave a low profile. He limped when he walked and Roger swore he must be wearing clogs to make all that noise just coming down the stairs of his backyard porch.

"Awooh, woooh, wooh, Awooh, wooh, wooh"
And there it was, the sound that was inevitably chained to the one before it; the old man's bloodhound, Rufus. Roger, with his brief encounters with the canine unit of the SCPD, had the privilege of working with many a bloodhound. And although Roger was no animal expert, from what he observed, he knew them to be one of the more intuitively bred dogs. But Rufus seemed to shatter that assumption every time he opened his flapping, drool-spattered mouth. Roger knew for certain Rufus had to be one of the stupidest bloodhounds ever bred, and one of the stupidest dogs ever, period. He barked at everything as if it were his next meal, which is characteristically normal of any dog, but what invoked Roger's belief that Rufus had to be the first case of canine retardation, was that he even savagely barked at his owner! Apparently Rufus' instinct hadn't hardcoded the simple proverb known to be born in every dog: Don't bite the hand that feeds you'.

Well, Roger had decided that, particularly this morning, his tolerance for Rufus was about the same as the dog's IQ; extremely low. So he anxiously awaited for Briggerdale to finish dumping the rest of his homemade "dog food" concoction into Rufus' bowl and get back inside so that damn dog would shut its mouth already.

As if on queue, Roger was alleviated by the lopsided clunking sounds of the old man going back up his patio stairs and back into whatever junk space he called home. However, this time Roger's alleviation was short, for the usual sound of the screen door slamming shut brought with it the silence of a dog eating in peace, but instead, it brought no such thing. The dog continued to bark as if his life depended on it (though Roger seriously questioned if the dog was even capable of knowing when its life was endangered).

"What a morning.... may as well face it on a full stomach", Roger mumbled in between a dissatisfied sigh. He decided he'd had enough with the "what's it" game and turned to head back inside to his flavourless oatmeal. That was, until he heard Old man Briggerdale come back outside, with an audible quicken to his step, shuffling across the patio and back down the stairs.
"Good," Roger thought, "he's finally going to go shut that dog up."

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!!"
Roger could hear the old man yelling at his dog. Secretly, he hoped the dog managed to land a bite on the old man; maybe that would be the factor that would finally push the old man to get rid of the damned mutt.

Faster than before, Roger could hear the old man go back up the stairs.
"Why is he running away from his dog?" Roger thought, "He should show it who's master, not run away from it. what a fool."
Then came the sound of the sliding door again. Roger was eagerly awaiting the sound of a whimper, the sound the dog always made after Briggerdale beat it with the 2x4 piece of wood he called "the Wacker".

"BOOM!.... BOOM!"
Had it been anyone else, they would have passed that off as the old man (with his deteriorating eyesight) missing the dog and hitting the garden shed that it was chained to instead. But no, three years on the force would not allow Roger to dismiss that sound. That sound was like an old friend to his ears: you didn't need to see it to remember it. The sound betrayed its true source and almost instantaneously caused the shiny black twin barrels of a double barrel shotgun to materialize in Rogers mind's eye. He knew the old man had a shotgun stashed away somewhere in his house (access to the police gun registry database helped him find that fact out a while ago). In fact, Roger had been desensitized to home defense by firearms, since he himself had an array of weapons locked away in his Police boudoir upstairs in the master bedroom. But what made Roger freeze in stomach churning guilt and newfound pity was the fact that the old man had used it on his dog. Roger had always jokingly hoped the dog would meet its demise, but now that its come to pass, he felt partly responsible and that made him queasy. He decided he had to know for certain. Perhaps he had missed, or maybe it was just a warning shot. Nonetheless, his police intuition left him no option but to satisfy his curiosity and find out what happened. Likewise, Roger promised himself that if he found the dog dead, he would charge the old man with animal cruelty and see to it that he got the full extent of the charges. Roger pressed his back against the front wall of his house and slowly started to peep around the corner into Old man Briggerdale's backyard. This may have proven a fruitless task if the old man wasn't so lazy to re-stake his fence, but seeming as his current fence was nothing but a rag-tag bunch of rotting wooden poles, Roger was able to get a clear view of the scene. He knew, had he seen a dead dog, he would have been overwhelmed by guilt and hate, but such was not the case, no, the dog was alive and seemed to be prodding away at something on the ground, something that sent Roger into utter panic. There, no more than two metres by the old man's feet, lay a limp body. Old man Briggerdale hovering over it with a double barrel shotgun pointed down fervidly at it. A motionless body with a person holding a double barrel shotgun pointing down at it painted an all too familiar picture to Roger: murder.
Roger dealt with this, at most, on a monthly basis; bodies going in and out, each with its own case file, and each with its own convicted sicko killer. But this was different, this time the body was but 30 metres from him, and the sicko killer, the same. This time, the case file would be created by him, and he knew exactly how it was going to end.

Instinctive training quickly took over his initial shock and almost innately he ran back inside the house while pulling out his keys.

"Rog-- what's wrong?"
"KATE, GET DOWN, STAY ON THE FLOOR, AND DON'T MOVE!"
Kate, obviously distraught started to franticly pose him more repetitive queries, which he knew he had no time to answer. He added a commanding "NOW!", and Kate got the point, she hit the floor, just as he taught her to do in the event of a situation like this. With his keys already in hand, Roger unlocked his Police cabinet with one swift and precise turn of the key. He popped off the padlock and without thinking twice grabbed his newly issued Glock 17 and a pair of hand cuffs. He didn't plan on encountering Briggerdale any closer than the 25 metres from his front yard to Briggerdale's backyard, so he would be needing something with range. Roger dashed back outside; only giving a quick reaffirming glance in the kitchen to make sure Kate was alright. Back out in his front yard, he lined himself up against his front wall again, this time he'd peep around the corner, not just with intuition, but with firepower too. He positioned himself into the triangle stance (they practically forced him to walk like that in training) and sighted the old man, who still had his double barrel shotgun pointed down at his victim.

"DROP THE WEAPON AND PUT UP YOUR HANDS", Roger shouted commandingly at the old man. But, surprisingly, the ultimatum had no effect on him. Briggerdale still stood steadfast over his victim with both barrels pointed convictingly, ready to give him a second death.

"DROP IT NOW OR I'LL SHOOT", Roger had never shot anyone before, but he knew if he had too, this would be the time. Though, in the back of his mind, he knew once back-up arrived, a swarm of officers, all with their guns aimed squarely at Briggerdale, should be enough to scare him into submission... yep, back-up...
"Oh Shit!", his thoughts were racing with grim realization that hit him like a ton of bricks he had forgotten to radio for back-up!! Since his radio was on his uniform, and he hadn't bothered with it, given the fact that a live homicide had just occurred 25 metres from his doorstep, he was cut off. He had to go this one alone, no back-up, no police team, no help, and he knew that meant no slip-ups either. He had to do it now, do it fast, and do it right. This gave Roger renewed conviction, he decided that this was the old man's last chance.

"DROP THE GUN, NOW!", Roger commanded with such imperativeness that he didn't even need a weapon, his mouth was his gun; words, his bullets. And this time they seemed to pierce through the old man's apparent trance. Briggerdale dropped the gun and backed away from the man. With his hands behind his neck he started limping towards Roger.

"H-h-he-- attacked me, he he- that fucker bit me!", Briggerdale stammered at Roger. Roger didn't care to hear testimony from a man that just shot someone dead.

"STAY WHERE YOU ARE, DON'T MOVE", Briggerdale halted on Rogers command. Roger approached him with wary caution. It wasn't until he got close enough to cuff Briggerdale did he notice a mouth-sized chunk of the old man's shoulder missing; a pool of blood gushing where there should have been flesh. After securing the cuffs, Roger knew that once his primary threat was neutralized, his next priority became victim and suspect safety.

While the old man continually protested his innocence and that he was attacked, Roger tore off a piece of his t-shirt sleeve and began bandaging the old man's ghastly wound, but not before getting a good look at the unmistakable signature of bite marks. Was their truth in Briggerdale's account of being attacked? If he was out to truly kill that guy, why would his victim bite him? Once the wound was bandaged, he forced Briggerdale into a seated position, and went to aid the victim, well, what was left of him anyways.

Roger could quickly tell this man was beyond the point of any help. The old man had hit him twice, once in the chest, and once in the shoulder. This was apparent by both the shredded mound of flesh, organs, and bone left in his chest, and the fact that his right arm was no longer a part of his body. It lay severed by his head, blood still oozing out and over the white-tipped protruding bone that had once belonged in the mans now non-existent shoulder socket. Despite the undoubted fate of the man, Roger still instinctively bent down with his fore and middle fingers outstretched towards the man's neck, in an attempt to take his pulse. That's when he spotted a large chunk of bloody flesh in the man's mouth.
"This could definitely corroborate Briggerdale's story....", Roger thought as he observed the scene. This case was not yet 10 minutes old, but was already speckled with odd enmities and queer evidence...

But Roger never got further enough to check the mans pulse, for something contradicted every physical and biological rule in the book, so much so, that the pulse now became irrelevant.... the man was trying to get up!!

"hoooollyy ssshhhit!...", Roger stood dumbfounded as a man with no arm and shredded flesh for a chest began to get up and stumble around. Roger was finally able to regain his bearings, but at the same time, so was the man. He was now upright and walk-shuffling towards Roger. With initial disbelief pushed out of his mind, Roger readied himself to help the man incase he fell.

"Sir, try not to move, help is on the way.", Roger said reaffirmingly.
"Grrrr, arrggg, hhuuunnnnggeer", was what Roger received as a reply.
"What?... Just try not to move okay? Roger couldn't quite make out what this bloody shell of a man was saying. It sounded like hunger, but Roger couldn't imagine how a man probably no longer in possession of a stomach, could, above all feelings, feel hunger!? Then, without notice, the man teetered towards Roger. "Shit! he's falling!", thought Roger as he reached out to catch the man. Though Roger was fast acting enough to catch him, he secretly wished he hadn't. Blood, guts, bodily fluid, and fibrous tissue now rubbed against Roger's chest and arms like a gory version of skin lotion, smearing him with their oozing remnants.

Roger's mind turned white as a blank page. Shock overcame him just as the bodily fluids leaking from the man provided enough lubrication to cause him to start slipping from Roger's grasp. But somehow, the man managed to still hold onto Roger. The tugging on Roger's left sleeve pulled him back into reality. But wait? His left sleeve? But Roger could have sworn, the man's right arm was blown clean off!! How could he grab Roger's left sleeve with an arm that wasn't there?

Taking a quick look down, Roger reconfirmed his initial observation, but more to his horror, also reconfirmed Briggerdale's story...This bloody corpse of a man had Roger's left sleeve tightly grasped, not in his hand, a hand that was still 10 metres behind them, but with his teeth!! And as Roger quickly helped to right the man, a sick realization washed over him: what if Briggerdale was right? And no sooner had he thought this, did his fears come to pass. This time using his left hand as leverage, the man released his grip on Roger's shirt with his teeth, only to try and reposition it on something more soft, something more fleshly, something that would satisfy his 'hunger'.

With the highest reaction time on the force, Roger easily dodged the man's gnashing teeth as they aimed for his neck, missed, and caused the shambled man to do a face plant into the ground. He was down, but not for long. He writhed and turned to right himself, but Roger used those few precious moments to find his bearings and focused the dot-sights of his Glock 17 squarely on the man's head.

"DON'T MOVE, STAY DOWN". Roger's searing words had no effect; the gory mound of flesh now got up with renewed vigor, but seemed even more dazed and lost now. The cause of this was apparent; though he landed on grass, the man still took the full impact of the fall on his face; crushing his cheekbones, fracturing his jaw, and splintering his nose bone, piercing it up and through one of his eye sockets. Roger decided to close the book of "Police Protocol" and open up a new one: "Roger's Book of Common Sense".

"New policy..", Roger's voice was crackled with fear but was still filled with determination, "you try to bite me and you'll get a fuckin' Nine millimeter through your head". The bloody mess of a man simply groaned (though, not in pain, but rather in frustration), sniffed the air with the jagged and bloody remains of his nose, and began to thrash around wildly with his arms; his detached and swinging jaw flapping around in a vain attempt to bite Roger.

Backing away slowly, with sights not wavering an inch from the man's head, Roger began to make his retreat. It was cut short by a soft, but sturdy object that had seemed to conveniently block his path.
"What the-?". Roger cried in acclamation as he spun around and came face to face with Briggerdale.

"I thought I told you to sit down." Roger half-yelled, half-asked of Briggerdale. "Holy, shit, you were right though, that fucker tried to bi-", but he never finished, Briggerdale cut him off with a swift lunge at his supple neck with his teeth. Adrenaline already coursing through his bloodstream, Roger was able to dodge this effortlessly and watched as Briggerdale whooshed past his left shoulder and met the ground with his face. With considerably more vigor than the thrashing corpse he left behind, Briggerdale writhed and turned over insanely on the ground. Though, it was obvious he wasn't going anywhere, the cuffs where still securely fastened around his wrists. But somehow that still did not deter Briggerdale....
Like a worm from hell, he slithered closer to Roger's ankle, viciously gnashing at it all the while.

"Fuckin' ankle biter! Roger yelped as he jumped back, leaving Briggerdale to thrash about violently on his own. But that jump was costly, for he had escaped Briggerdale's vicious bite only to find himself being battered and clawed at again by the bloody orgy of mangled flesh and tissue that he thought he had left far behind.

"FUCKIN' BITCH!", with that, Roger took a page from his common sense book: 'shoot first, ask questions later'. He put two bullets squarely into the gory, flesh-ripped, abomination's head. The first stopped his thrashing, the second sent him down spinning. He then spun around to deal with Briggerdale, but what he saw made his blood run cold. Approaching up the side of the house were literally hordes of deathly pale people, stumbling and limping towards him.

"Where in the hell-?", Roger had no clue where they had come from. Had they been approaching all the while? Did he not notice them coming ever closer as he struggled with Briggerdale? Why did they all look deathly pale, like walking corpses? Exactly what the hell is going on around here anyways?
He decided he had had enough of questions, it was time for answers, and whether they were provided by the spoken word, or by the tip of a 9mm bullet he didn't care; either way, he was going to get some answers.








This post has been edited by |2enegade on February 05, 2005 07:11 am

You thought about writing books? You are about to become the new Foxtrot !

lol, thx
unfortunately I can't focus long enough to write an entire book though

oh yea, I forgot to mention it before, but comments, questions, and feedback are all welcome!

It's a great start, to a great story. I look forward to the next page.

thx for the feedback!
I have DELERIUM part II all planned in my head... just gotta get it on paper now...

Very good. Will it have your scientifically sound zombies? Though I see the infection spreads very fast (One bite on the neighbour and he turns within 10 min)

I enjoyed the misunderstanding of the cop, until the zombie gets back up again.

No major flaws I can see, only a few minor ones. Just for a reference, its "hordes" not Hoards (one means lots of people, the other one means someones store of wealth - e.g. A dragons hoard of gold. And you didnt need to finish "He was going to get some answers .... either way he was going to get some answers." with answers again - just "either way, he was going to get some."

When you going to finish it off? (try posting smaller chunks of story if its a bit of a stress to do it all at once)

I think the story is dead, and not about to pop up from the grave... its too bad, i liked it

time is sinisterly unobliging.... I just need some more time to make a part two.

As for the zombies... they're a harmonical balance between my theory and fictional entertainment (so they are a bit more hollywoodish to add a fear effect).

P.S. I agree, posting in chunks is more stressfull for me, but it gives the reader more to grasp onto and read.

10/10!

we like

Nice to know this story has reanimated Nice with people that write in big chunks instead of one sentence at a time to increase post ammount...

Well? I declare this for dead.
*Im not dead I just wait for a month to show lifesigns!*
BLAM
Dead. Move along.

Shame, was liking this.

truly sorry guys. Though I can promise you there will be more, I can't promise you it will be soon. Recent events in my life have both left me busy and uninspired, and I would hate to write a hollow story without any inspiration just for the sake of writing

but, I promise you, before I die, I will continue this story.
(in the meantime, just let it sift back down to the bottom)