Tales of Virusgeddon: Charles Abigail Romanov Part II

Charles Abigail Romanov Part II
Part of the Virusgeddon series of stories

“What are you doing here? And when the hell did you have kids?” I ask angrily. Buddy or no, even one extra person in your dwelling puts you in grave danger.

“What did you expect us to do?!” Jack bellowed “You’re the only guy I know around here, I would have had to pick the lock or break down a door to hide anywhere else, neither of which I had time to do with the love of my life close behind trying to chew our faces off.” Jack calmed down a bit. “I had these kids years ago. Triplets. Got myself addicted to heroine, wife divorced me and kicked me out. Was just starting to get clean when the virus hit. Found her and the kids locked in a room. An apocalypse ain’t the place to be holding old grudges and the kids need their daddy in a hellhole like this.”

I nodded in agreement. I could understand that. My dad helped me through puberty. To have to deal with puberty (assuming any of them are immune, which is unlikely) AND an apocalypse, I shuddered at the thought. “Fine, you can stay here for now, but I always want a double watch with at least one adult at all times. We go anywhere, we go together.” All three nodded at that. They knew what passed for social protocol in this day and age. “I’ll help scout out a new place for you guys, preferably near me just in case anything you can’t handle happens. Boy, you’re on first watch with me. Jack, you and girl get some sleep.”

“Their names are Hunter and Jasmine, just in case you were wondering” Jack muttered.

“My place, I call them whatever the heck I want to.” Truth is, I just want to keep from getting attached. If they were a threat, I would shoot child manimals same as adult ones, no hesitation. Didn’t like it, but what else can you do? Standing by and let those little savages dine on your face while you bask in your moral superiority will only lead to a missing face. I like my face. It ain’t pretty, but it’s the only one I have.

During our watches Boy always tries to start up a conversation with me. I just watch to see if he’s developing any signs of the decay. He keeps freaking talking though, talking about everything from the Aeros, to Lebron James coming by his school before the outbreak (he actually leads one of the biggest packs in the city now), to his friends and, inevitably, to his mother and sister.

“I hope they’re in heaven now” he concludes during one of his “speeches”, lapsing into silence. That catches me by surprise. Enough that I have to reply

“But didn’t your mom kill your sister? You aren’t angry at her?” I ask incredulously, at the same time cursing myself for once again shooting my mouth off. He’s just a freaking kid.

“Ya, but it wasn’t her fault. Like when you get a tummy ache it isn’t your fault that you threw up. or a doggie with rabies trying to bite you. I don’t hate you. That thing wasn’t my mommy anymore.” he says this last one with tears in his eyes. He might as well be a little clone of his old man at this point.

When the idiot was sober, he would often say things like that. Half the reason I liked him was his insightfulness, his empathy. He always liked to see the best in people, even when they were drunken shitheads like me. And now, just like that, Boy became Hunter, and I became a little less sure of this arrangement.