SurvivorZ: Grave Harbor

40

AARON

Aaron Hurst sat on the cold bunk provided to every survivor trickling into the tent city of Hanscom and stared at the photograph caught between the trembling sausage links of his swollen fingers. A stray tear ran down his cheek.

The memento from his past was heart wrenching, but not merely due to the bitter reminder of his lost wife and daughter. He also pined for the slim figure accompanying them in the picture – himself, back when he topped the scale at a fit two hundred pounds. It was almost impossible to believe that his brother-in-law snapped the family photo only a month ago.

Gas wheezed from his oversized butt cheeks, adding to the nauseating stench of old bed farts that had settled over everything in the tent. It was no wonder the two men who once shared his accommodations were so keen to find somewhere else to stay. In the space of a week, he had turned into a bloated, stink-filled balloon.

He wasn't sorry about having the place to himself. Roommates would only bear witness to the steady decline of his physical condition. It was better when nobody noticed him.

Flying under the radar wasn't always easy, as his unfortunate run-in with the barking dog and its owners proved. He hadn't intended to make such a spectacle of himself by getting into those people's business. It was just that the dog had startled him. Not because he was afraid of it, but because it was clearly afraid of him – or rather, what he was becoming.

He didn't understand what was happening to him, and that scared him too. When he arrived in Hanscom a little over a week ago, he topped the scale at two-ten. Aside from a tiny bruise on his neck, he was in fine physical shape. Now he could barely squeeze through a door.

Heavy layers of fat condensed on every muscle in his body, making it hard to draw breath, much less move normally. Nothing seemed to hinder his abnormal slide into obesity. Even his bowels rebelled against him. They spewed foul-smelling gases like an active volcano building up to an eruption.

Under other circumstances, he would've consulted a doctor long before his condition became chronic. Now, the fear of what might happen once their protectors learned of his unnatural weight gain kept him hidden from public scrutiny. If a dog could sense it, he had to believe others could as well. He was turning into something less than human, and there wasn't anything anyone could do to save him. Seeking help from anyone in Hanscom would only result in his immediate termination.

Aaron didn't want to go out like that. If he was going to check out, he wanted a less violent demise. One on his terms.

He glanced at his backpack. Several times, he'd entertained the notion of slitting his wrists with the knife contained inside. It was too late now. His condition had won out in the end. He kept putting it off and putting it off, hoping to wake up one day to find his strange affliction finally improving. Now, his swollen fingers couldn't find enough purchase on the zipper to open the bag and retrieve it.

He didn't dare approach anyone for help, even for so simple a task. Between the stench of his corpulent body and the ratty blanket he fashioned into a poncho over his torn, undersized clothes, everyone else steered clear of him. He didn't blame them. It was survival instinct. To everyone else around him, he might as well have been a walking plague-carrier.

Sighing tiredly, Aaron settled back down into his too-narrow bed and stared up at the fading light shining upon the canvas ceiling. There seemed to be no point in getting up and waiting in line for his dinner. Ingesting food only quickened the pace of his condition.

Instead, he lay there and reflected on the moment that it all went bad. He knew exactly what caused it. It was that thing in the hospital.

After losing his wife the day before, their daughter received a bite during a second zombie attack. Desperate for medicine to save her, he left her to recuperate in her bed and went exploring Mount Auburn Healthcare in Lexington by himself. He never found a cure. What he found instead was a slow, turgescent death.

Though ransacked, the place was practically deserted. He figured the dead had likely moved on in the days following the outbreak. He was partially right. Only a few zombies remained, but as he soon discovered, they weren't alone. Something else stalked him from the shadows. The skittering of tiny legs followed his every move.

Even after it struck, he didn't get a good look at it. He felt a needle-like jab in his neck. The shooting pain down his side was enough to shatter his last ounce of courage. He bolted out the door, straight into an army convoy on their way to Hanscom Air Force Base.

Later, while still reeling from the subsequent death and reanimation of his little girl, he worried that the camp doctor might question him about the injury. He still didn't have an explanation for the creature that attacked him.

Fortunately, Doctor Mills merely commented on the bruise and welcomed him to the safety of Hanscom. The wound itself looked no worse than a bee sting or some kind of allergic reaction. He resolved to put it out of his mind entirely during his stay in the military shelter.

Then he started gaining weight, practically overnight. His affliction ceased to be something he could ignore, and turned into a constant source of fear and paranoia. Cripplingly so, it seemed.

Aaron sighed again. This time, his mind was set. He wouldn't budge from his tent again. All that awaited him outside was the possibility of someone finding out the truth about him. Since food only made his condition worse, he'd starve himself thinner. If that didn't work, then at least he'd perish quietly. It was a better death than the alternative of shitting himself while staring down the barrel of a soldier's gun.

Resolved to meet his fate on his terms, Aaron spared absolutely no thought for what might happen afterwards. The terrifying repercussions of his fateful decision never once entered his mind.