This was originally written for gumOnShoe's writing contest last May. It didn't win any awards or make it into an honorable mention category, but I learned a lot from the experience and had some fun doing it. I've made some minor changes to the story, but the gist of it is still the same.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++Deterioration +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A siren was blaring fiercely three blocks down the street. They've found another one, Jacob said quietly. The sound of gunfire erased any doubts he had left. Setting his rag and rifle down slowly, Jacob listened to the noise grow fainter and softer as the seconds passed. Soon, there was silence. Breathing a sigh of relief, Jacob continued to clean his weapon.

It was a ritual he had grown accustomed to since the arrival of the guard. The city under martial law had become quieter than ever. The rationing and curfew have done what five decades of community activism could not: shut the city up. Now if that was the reason why they were here... Jacob mused.

His now reassembled rifle in his hands, Jacob began the nightly inspection of the perimeter. He walked slowly, scanning each brick with clear precision. All as in place, from the broken glass embedded at the top to the small ditch dug outside a foot bellow the bottom.

Quickly bolting and barricading the gate, he went back inside. Jacob cooked some ramen over the stove and turned on the radio. The static interference was barely audible. Not a single radio station was broadcasting. With no luck on A.M. or F.M., Jacob began eating the noodles and tried the television. The first image that appeared on the screen was that of a human skull shattering under the blow of a titanium crowbar.

The scene was nearly indescribable. At least thirty people were various stages of illness. They were laid out on filthy sheets in a bare concrete room. The ones furthest to the corner were covered with blood stained cloth. The only open door leading into the room had the word "triage" painted on with an unsteady hand.

The newscaster hovered near the edge of exhaustion.

"The medical staff of this infirmary have come to the conclusion that this infection cannot be halted with the use of any known pharmaceutical or medical treatment. As you've just been graphically shown, the destruction of the brain case, more specifically the frontal lobe, will effectively terminate the---"

The screen became a boiling mass of static. Jacob slowly placed his bowl of ramen onto the table, grabbed his rifle and headed toward the window. The curtain was drawn and the room was lit with an eerie red glow. The city was burning. Huge plumes of smoke wafted over the hills, painting the night sky with a blazing black cloud of ash and embers. It was nearing midnight and the sounds of police cruisers, fire trucks, ambulances and armored personnel carriers screamed a clarion call through the dark.

Shaken by the noise and smoke, Jacob turned on his laptop. The cable he buried
under the yard had not been severed. The major news networks were not yet offline. What he heard about the crisis was devastating. The infection has nearly overwhelmed the rest of the nation's military and law enforcement. An entire National Guard brigade was annihilated on the plains of New Mexico. Thousands of guardsmen were deserting their posts and trying to return home. There were talks of quarantining the continent. From all of this chaos coming from outside, it was a miracle that the situation in the city has remained so stable for so long.

Jacob hastily shut the computer down, turned off the lights and began making preparations for a prolonged stay indoors. He plugged all of the sinks in the house and filled every sanitary container with water. Quickly taking stock of his current pantry, Jacob estimated that he would be exceptionally lucky if he were to be able to last three weeks on an all ramen diet.

With a flashlight between his jaws and a chain of keys in his hand, Jacob also managed to retrieve every bit of ammunition he had ever hidden the house since his time in the army. He tore apart the gutters looking for the spare key for the outhouse. Inside its moldy interior, beneath a rotting plank, lay three sticks of TNT. Jacob carefully eased open the hidden compartment and removed the Nitroglycerine. He placed one of the crimson sticks on the dashboard of his Subaru. Jacob kept the remaining two in a locked box in which he dropped into his duffel bag. Jacob jumped into the SUV and parked it against the gate.

There was no sleep for anyone that early morning. The gunshots, screams, explosions and the sound of broken glass resonated throughout the night. Jacob clutched his M4 in bed and kept his .22 under the pillow. His face was as pale as the surface of the moon.

The following week provided no further developments. The chaos outside of Jacob's home began to die down. Gradually, the sounds of small arms fire and broken glass had disappeared. The streets outside his home were empty. A cup of coffee was steaming on the table. Jacob's bloodshot eyes burrowed into its black depths. He kept the black rifle slung on his shoulder.

Dozens of questions remained unanswered. The people who had the capacity to explain them were dead and gone. Nervousness was giving way to despair. During this point in his life, Jacob felt hopeless.

The sound of thumping caught his attention. Jacob silently crept through his domicile and out the back door. Walking swiftly across the yard he found the source of the noise.

Someone was pounding steadily on the barricaded gate. The figure's features were obscured by the gate's metal mesh. Creeping onto the vehicle, Jacob peered over top of the fence. A balding middle-aged man wearing a pair of torn jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt was standing against the gate. The moment Jacob looked over, the Harvard man looked up. His face was ashen and covered with small cuts and abrasions. The man let out a ragged moan.

Jacob slowly pulled out his .22 from his waistband, leveled the pistol at the man's head and put a round through the top of the man's skull, dropping him. The dead man's call was answered by two others coming from an alley a few houses down. Both of them were female. One of them had no lower body. The other was missing an arm. They groped across the street with their hands, moaning along the way. Jacob put two rounds into each of their foreheads with his M4. He walked back inside.

He was silent throughout the afternoon, reloading his ammunition into the magazines and packing his bag for his (hopefully) unnecessary escape. After filling his pack with essentials and his satchel with magazines, Jacob looked out his shutters. His heart skipped a beat. Over thirty people were gathered outside his gate. They were about to pound the metal off its hinges. It was time to leave.

Grabbing his equipment, Jacob lugged it to the furthest end of the yard and placed it on the wall. Climbing onto an old crate, Jacob grabbed the two bags on the way to the other side. He ran through the alley, opened the rickety gate, and slipped into the grove of trees across the road.

Smoke was coming from his house. Could they have broken in already? And why the hell would they set it on fire? Jacob wondered. The realization dawned on him: he had neglected to turn off his propane stove. A fireball of no small size engulfed the remains of his fire gutted home. Had he hesitated for a few moments to leave, the propane stored under his house would have turned him into a blackened lump of coal.

Jacob did not know where he was going. His feet turned north, toward the mountains. He walked with a quiet intensity in his stride. Jacob never looked back.