Blood and Delusion

It all comes down to blood.

Blood in the veins – blood on the ground – it’s all the same, isn’t it?

In your body blood oxygenates cells, carries nutrients throughout your whole body, and takes away the waste.

Everybody’s blood works the same way, more or less. Some people have too thick blood and they have to take blood thinners. Some have too much and have high blood pressure and they take medication. Some have too little, while others get poor circulation. But in essence all blood is the same.

But that isn’t entirely true either. Some people’s blood has antigens and others have different ones. Different types of blood can’t mix because not every body can use the antigens. Our blood also does something else. It contains the body’s immune system, the T-Cells and white blood cells you might or might not remember from that Tuesday in 8^th grade biology. But your body produces antibodies which work with your antigens to fight off disease. There is a theory that the reason there are so many more people with O+ and A+ blood types in the world is because way back when the Black Plague swept across the globe cutting the world’s population by 80% the antigens and antibodies in O+ and A+ blood types fought the disease better. Whereas the other blood types just couldn’t fight it off as well.

All this talk of blood has made me sick. The sticky red fluid, the life force, the thing that is solely responsible for keeping the body alive became our enemy, turning friends to beasts – making monsters out of us all. Books used to read, “so much blood the rivers turned red” or “the ground was slick from the amount of blood.” Never did I think it could be possible – it was always some kind Hollywood joke or a descriptive tool used by writers. But I have literally watched rivers become a disgusting sanguine color stirred to an even mix by the floating bodies. The streets are littered with the bodies of the dead. Coagulating blood dripping into storm drains – the streets slowly turning a rusty brown as those walking bags of death slouch through the streets waiting to drag down the next unfortunate victim who gets distracted scrounging for valuable loot.

But you can’t stay off the streets. As my grandfather said to me before dying naturally, “You can’t be afraid. If you resign to the fact that you are already dead then you will find yourself at a state a peace. Able to do as you please when everyone else cowers in their homes afraid of what the world might bring.”

The sun rises. It’s a cool day – a brisk wind carries that stench of a thousand rotting corpses. But I warm myself in the sun – think of what my grandfather told me – unbolt the sturdy steel door, my silent guardian against the fiends of the night, and stepped into the early morning and begin my day of survival.

  

It hasn’t been long since the disease crept into the city. Maybe six months or so have passed but cars already have gathered a thick layer of dust. Pumps around the city have stopped and some places are flooded with an inch or two of water.

People used to walk these streets, tourists and locals – all oblivious to the dangers that would soon come, disregarding the signs of trouble on the horizon.

The streets are still walked, but they don’t walk to lead a life. They walk to satiate an endless hunger.

Moving down Main Street, I keep to the shop windows and alcoves stopping from time to time to watch ahead, check behind and plan my next movement to shelter. They are not crafty and lack creative thought, but if you don’t pay attention, they can quickly be on you biting, clawing, drooling.

It has been two weeks since I have seen another living person. And that person was a scrawny, emaciated thing more beast than man, frightened by my mere presence – or maybe offended by my defiance against what the world threw at the human race. He quickly padded away in his ragged clothes and torn shoes before I could offer to help him. I didn’t want to help him anyway – it’s safer to be alone, no one to rely on or slip up to get you killed.

But sometimes it does get lonely.

Now there is more blood. Blood covered glass. Blood stained walls. Half eaten bodies, some reasonably fresh ones mixed in with the oldest.

A rusty doorknob breaks off easily in an alleyway. Inside is a pristine back room of someone’s apartment. Sifting through the shelves quickly – only the essentials are taken. This is probably the last untouched source of supplies left in the city, it really isn’t that big, and what is left would require too much time wasted scrounging. Probably about time to leave the city and look for greener pastures.

Difficulty in exiting the store room and alleyway is increased only slightly by the shuffling of one of them at the entrance to the alley. But it takes no notice and disappears behind the building heading farther down the street. When there is one, there are more to come. I quickly but softly move to the opposite end of the alley from Main Street, when suddenly a snarl comes from behind. Snapping around with gun raised, I see a wild dog. The benefit of the disease is that wildlife was unaffected, the disease being unable to take hold in the host body. What a disgustingly specific infection this is. It makes this dog only slightly less dangerous. At least I don’t have to compete with the unnatural lack of self-preservation which characterizes the infected.

A gun shot would attract attention, human or otherwise, so I holster the 9mm. The diseased can smell blood better than a shark. So my knife is out of the question. Luckily a broken broom lies on the ground near the dumpster in front of me. Keeping my eyes on the wild animal in front of me, I slowly reach for the two foot piece of cheap pine broomstick on the ground. The dog’s instincts are too good and it lunges for my neck. Snapping the broomstick from ground into the dog’s head, it emits only a half-snarl half-whimper. I try to dodge out of the way of the bite but I wasn’t fast enough.

The dog’s teeth sink into my arm. A quick club to the head and my attacker releases me. And flees the alley deciding I am not worth the physical torment. But now blood is slowly seeping from my multiple puncture wounds. A quick bandage from an extra bandana stops the blood from trailing me when I make my escape – keeps them from following me. But I have wasted too much time. My friend from earlier peeks back around the corner at the other end of the alley. He sniffs the air and begins to shamble, slowly at first, but with a quickening gate towards the blood, and me. Its only fractions of a second later and more begin to pour down the alley. It’s time to run.

I take off, disregarding the noise of my shoes beating the pavement which must sound like two slabs of concrete slamming together in this dead city. But speed is now more important than stealth. As I run, panting from the exertion, I make up my mind:

Time to see if my parents are still alive…