Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set

by Margaret Lashley

  “Let me start by saying that what I’m about to tell you is, at this point, purely hypothetical,” Crum said, wobbling as if he might faint.

  I waved my marshmallow-on-a-stick at him like a magic wand. “I think you should sit down, Doctor.”

  Crum nodded. “Yes. I think we all should.”

  Eyebrows ticked up around the campfire. Each of us grabbed a lawn chair and dragged it toward Crum. We formed a tight circle next to the fire pit, and waited expectantly for the doctor to speak.

  Crum wiped his brow with a paper napkin. It was so quiet all I could hear was the fire crackling. As the doctor nervously cleared his throat again, I shot a glance at Grayson. His eyes were shining like a kid let loose in a candy-store free-for-all. I could almost envision his hands rubbing together maniacally.

  That weirdo lives for this stuff.

  “I spoke to a friend of mine at the CDC,” Crum coughed out like a confession. “According to Dr. Easterly, a new form of transmissible spongiform encephalopathy is affecting free-ranging deer, elk, and moose.”

  “Transpo what?” Earl asked.

  Crum shot him a worried glance. “Trans—never mind. In layman’s terms, it’s called chronic wasting disease, or CWD for short. Anyway, the disease causes abnormal proteins to collect in brain and spinal cord tissues. They eventually burst and cause microscopic empty spaces, basically turning the animal’s normal brain tissue into a sponge-like material.”

  “You mean like Spongebob Squarepants?” Earl looked around and laughed at his own joke. No one laughed back. He pouted and sat back in his lawn chair.

  Crum chewed his lip. “No. I’m afraid this is no joke. The infected animals really suffer.”

  “What happens to them?” Grayson asked.

  “It’s subtle at first. Weight loss, drooling, droopy ears. Then a general wasting away of their health. So far, the disease has only been reported in western states.”

  “How many?” Grayson asked.

  “Twenty-four.”

  Grayson whistled.

  “I ain’t followin’ y’all,” Earl said. “What’s a sponge-headed deer got to do with anything?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Crum said. “You see, in the final stages of CWD, these animals lose their fear of people, and can get aggressive.”

  “Are you saying you think an infected deer attacked Lester Jenkins?” Grayson asked.

  “Possibly. But it could be worse than that. A lot worse.” Crum took a deep breath and steadied himself. “Lester and Arlene Jenkins—and perhaps even Rexel—could have contracted CWD themselves.”

  Garth flew up out of his chair, knocking it over. “Are you saying this CWD crap is contagious?”

  Crum cleared his throat. “Yes. I mean, no. Not contagious like you might think. And right now, like I said, this is just a theory. As far as we know, the disease is only affecting deer. But according to Easterly, it’s likely that human cases will show up.”

  “But if it’s not contagious, how do humans get it?” Garth asked.

  Crum locked eyes with Garth. “From eating the meat of contaminated animals.”

  Garth’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding me.”

  Crum shook his head. “I wish I were. The disease has already proven to be transmittable to other animals, including primates, our closest relatives. Easterly thinks it’s not a matter of if, but when CWD will transfer to humans.”

  I cringed. “Geez! If it does, would the symptoms be like what happened to Arlene and Rexel?”

  Crum shook his head. “We can only speculate at this point. But they would probably be very similar to Mad Cow Disease. First, a tingling and burning sensation in the face and extremities. In later stages, most likely dementia and psychotic behavior.”

  “That would certainly explain a few things,” Grayson said.

  Crum nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. The symptoms Arlene is displaying would fit the profile to a T.”

  “If you’re right, what will happen to her now?” I asked.

  Crum shook his head. “Nothing good. This isn’t nicknamed zombie deer disease for nothing.”

  “It turns deer into zombies?” Earl asked. “If people eat the zombie deer, do they turn into zombies too?”

  Crum blew out an exhausted breath. “Basically, yes.”

  Grayson whistled long and low. “How many people are we talking about here, Doc?”

  “Who knows? Easterly told me around fifteen thousand infected animals get eaten every year in the US. If a diseased animal got into a meat processing plant ... well, I’d hate to think about the consequences.”

  Wells rubbed his chin. “You said this disease is only affecting deer out West. If that’s true, how’d Lester Jenkins get infected?”

  “Oh! Oh! I think I know that one!” Earl said, bouncing up and down in his lawn chair.

  I could almost hear a collective groan.

  “And what would that be?” Wells asked tiredly.

  Earl beamed. “I seen pictures of him and his brother, Hank huntin’ out West. They must’ve brought some infected deer meat back with ‘em.”

  “Huh. That actually makes sense,” Wells said. “But what about Rexel? He didn’t go out west, and he wasn’t a hunter.”

  Garth shrugged. “He’s old. He could’ve just gone off his rocker naturally.”

  “Or Rexel could’ve taken some infected meat from Jenkins’ cabin,” I offered. “It’s just a short walk from his house.”

  “All he’d need was a nibble,” Crum said.

  I shot Grayson an “I told you so” stare. From the expression on his face, I didn’t need to remind him how I’d slapped that hunk of deer meat from his hand a millisecond before he’d taken a bite.

  “Awe, crap!” Garth said, and let out a groan so loud we all turned and stared at him.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Garth cringed. “Rexel was in charge of alternative food procurement. He might’ve bartered with Jenkins for venison. If he did, he could’ve infected everybody at Dreadmore!”

  I blanched. “You mean we could be looking at a whole army of zombies out there?”

  “Not just zombies,” Grayson said. “Prepper zombies.”

  We all stared at Garth. He shrunk back in his lawn chair. “Don’t look at me. Except for chicken wings, I’m a vegetarian!”

  Suddenly, an unearthly howl rang out from the darkness beyond the campfire.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I joined the circle of anxious eyes darting back and forth, exchanging panicked glances.

  In the dumbstruck silence came the sound of footsteps ...

  fast and furious ...

  crashing through the bushes toward us.

  I shot a glance at my cousin. Earl’s eyes were as big as boiled eggs. He jerked his body to standing and bellowed.

  “Run everybody! It’s the zombie apocalypse!”

  Chapter Forty

  I KNEW I’D NEVER BE able to haul my breeder hips up into Earl’s monster truck in time to save them, so I scrambled for the RV instead. Grayson was hot on my heels.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I yelled as we crashed into each other in front of the RV’s side door.

  “You think I know?” Grayson yelled. “Get in!”

  I yanked open the door and scrambled inside, assisted by a less-than-helpful push from behind. Grayson climbed in nearly on top of me, slammed the door behind him, and set the lock.

  I cringed. “I hope Earl’s all right.”

  Grayson grimaced. “I hope he’s all wrong. I’m not ready for a freaking zombie apocalypse.”

  I chewed my lip anxiously. “I’m gonna go turn on the headlights and see what’s going on.”

  Grayson grabbed my arm. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The lights may set them off.”

  I locked eyes with Grayson. “Then what are we gonna do?”

  His green eyes flickered a shade darker. “Ride it out, I guess.”

  A sickening th
ought hit me. “Are the cab doors locked?”

  Grayson’s eyes locked onto mine. “Crap!”

  “Out of my way!” I yelled.

  We both bolted for the front of the RV. Our heads collided, then our bodies crammed together in the narrow passage leading to the driver’s cab. Neither of us was going anywhere unless one of us budged.

  Grayson grunted, tried to squeeze past me, then his chest went limp against mine. “Look,” he said. “You do the passenger seat, I’ll get the driver’s side.”

  “Deal.”

  He stepped back enough for me to break free. I burst into the cab and nearly ran headlong into the windshield. I caught myself with both hands on the dashboard.

  Through the glass, I saw something flit by in the darkness.

  Panic shot through me afresh. I dove for the passenger seat. My hand flew up, ready to slam down on the door lock. But right before I made contact, I heard the sickening click of the door handle.

  The door swung open.

  “Grayson!” I screamed, and jumped a foot when his arms wrapped around me from behind. He held me tight as I stared out the open door, straining to see what I didn’t want to see.

  Two inhuman red eyes bore down on us from the darkness. A low, menacing howl pierced the night again. White fangs flashed in the moonlight.

  With no better option coming to my scared-witless mind, I closed my eyes and screamed bloody murder.

  Chapter Forty-One

  AS I WAITED FOR THE zombies to eat my brain, I heard Grayson exhale a nervous laugh.

  I opened my eyes.

  Garth was standing outside the open passenger door, staring at me with a sheepish grin. “Look who came home for supper. Must’ve smelled the hotdogs.” He glanced down at his furry, black companion. “Tooth, you’re a bad doggy.”

  Grayson gave me a bear-hug squeeze and burst out laughing. I wriggled free from his arms and shot him a glance that made him nearly swallow his tongue.

  I turned my anxious rage on Garth. “Your dog scared the bejeebers out of us!”

  Garth grimaced. “Sorry, Miss Pandora.” He patted Tooth’s huge head. The dog whimpered. “He didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Argh!” I bit down and took a deep breath to regain my composure.

  The two men looked at me expectantly. What they were expecting, I had no idea. I took another deep breath and said, “Well, at least he’s okay. We’re all okay, right?”

  “Except for Crum,” Garth said. “His favorite pizza pants got ruined.”

  I winced. “Did Tooth bite Doc in the butt?”

  Garth rubbed Tooth’s head. “Nah. Don’t tell anybody, but Tooth here’s a wimp. He just talks a big game.”

  Earl came lumbering up. “Y’all okay in there?”

  “Yeah,” I said, relieved to see him. “But what happened to Crum?”

  “Ol’ Doc?” Earl laughed. “He’ll be all right. He’s just cleaning up a little special sauce he let loose in his pizza pants.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  AFTER DOING A QUICK headcount, it was confirmed that we’d all survived the zombie-free Tooth apocalypse. Granted, some of us a little better than others.

  “Come with me,” Wells said to Crum. “I think I’ve got a clean pair of sweats that’ll fit you.”

  Too wired for sleep, the rest of us followed the men into the Wells brothers’ trailer. Jimmy led Crum to the bathroom. Garth lured Tooth into his crate with a bone smeared with peanut butter and CBD oil—some kind of cannabis-based sedative, according to Garth.

  “You want a squirt?” he asked me, holding the eyedropper.

  “No. But I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

  “Make that two,” Grayson said.

  “Coming right up.” Garth put the coffee on, then reached into the cupboard and pulled out dainty china cups and saucers adorned with a delicate pink rose pattern.

  “Nice dishes,” I said. “Family heirloom?”

  “No,” Garth said. “I just like ’em. Have a seat.”

  I looked around and grimaced. From the state of the place, the maid hadn’t been here since our last visit. I tried not to think about it, and joined Earl and Grayson on the couch. A moment later, Wells came back down the hall and sat down in a chair across from us.

  Maybe it was the adrenaline crash, the dreadful deer disease, or the shock of still being alive, but none of us seemed to have much to say. Garth handed each of us a cup, and we drank our coffee in silence, waiting on Crum to finish wiping up his pizza sauce.

  It took longer than any of us had anticipated.

  It was Earl who finally broke the silence. He nodded at the crate, then addressed Garth. “You don’t think that there hound of yours is going zombie, do you?”

  Garth shook his head. “No. Tooth just suffers from separation anxiety. He’s been like that since he was a pup. Jimmy’s got the scars to prove it.”

  Wells nodded and touched his neck absently.

  “So, where do we go from here, Mr. Gray?” Garth asked.

  Grayson set down his china cup. “Good question. Let’s see. So far, we’ve got one dead guy—”

  “Missing dead guy,” I said.

  Grayson eyed me. “One missing dead guy, presumably murdered, and two people who appear to have lost their marbles eating zombie deer meat. Not exactly the storyline for a Hallmark movie.”

  “We don’t know for sure it’s zombie deer disease,” Wells said, shooting Grayson a perturbed look. “There’s no point in getting everybody all worked up about that. I think Arlene Jenkins is most likely suffering from hysteria brought on by Lester’s death and being locked in that bunker.”

  “But what about Lester and Rexel?” I asked. “They don’t have those excuses. Whether this deer disease thing turns out to be real or not, I’m thinking the cases still have to be related somehow.”

  “I agree,” Grayson said. “When you look at it, Rexel and Jenkins shared several commonalities. They both were preppers. And ham radio enthusiasts.” He turned to Wells. “Was Jenkins ever in the military?”

  Wells shook his head. “I don’t recall that from his background check. But they were both transplants to Florida.”

  Earl laughed. “Who ain’t?”

  Wells pursed his lips. “Jenkins’ cabin was close to Rexel’s house. There could be some environmental factor at play there.”

  “You mean besides the sponge-brain thing?” Earl asked.

  Wells sighed. “Yes. It could be some toxin in the soil or water, or—”

  “That still wouldn’t explain his crushed bones,” Grayson said. “Or the slimy substance you said was on his head.”

  “Halibut,” Earl said.

  We all turned and stared at my cousin.

  Earl chewed the side of his cheek. “That Hank Chambers guy. He said halibut instead of husband.”

  “Are you saying you think he might be infected, too?” I asked.

  Earl grinned. “All I’m saying is there’s something mighty fishy going on. Get it?”

  Wells shot Earl some side-eye. “I don’t think—”

  “Excuse me,” Crum interrupted. He’d emerged from the bathroom wearing dark-blue sweatpants. They coordinated well with his donut shirt, which, unfortunately, appeared no worse for wear. “Sorry that took so long.”

  “Dr. Crum,” I said. “You told us this chronic wasting disease can make animals lose their fear of humans and get aggressive. Do you think a deer is capable of crushing Jenkins’ bones like the autopsy report showed?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I guess it’s possible.”

  “That would be some major overkill,” Wells said. “I don’t see why a deer would waste the energy.”

  “What about Rexel’s bizarre behavior?” I asked. “Could chronic wasting disease make a man strip naked and climb a water tower?”

  Crum thought about my question for a moment. “Yes, I suppose. But here’s the thing. He and the others would’ve had to have eaten infected meat four or five months ago, ma
ybe longer.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Assuming it’s like Mad Cow Disease, that’s how long it took for advanced psychotic behavior to begin to manifest.”

  Earl opened his mouth to speak. Wells gave him a glare that would shut a normal person down. Earl, of course, didn’t pay him any mind.

  “Them hunting pictures I saw at their house. Looked to me like Lester and Hank bagged ’em a deer out West in spring or early summer. The grass was fresh and green.”

  Wells’ hard expression softened. He shifted his attention from Earl to Crum. “If they are infected, how can we prove it?”

  Crum chewed his lip. “I’ll need to take another look at Jenkins’ brain biopsy.”

  “What do I tell the folks at Dreadmore?” Garth asked.

  “Nothing, for now,” Crum said. “There’s no point in stirring up hysteria until—” Crum stopped midsentence. “I need to get samples of that deer meat for testing. Where can we get some?”

  “There may still be some in Jenkins’ cabin,” I said.

  “Or in the bunker behind their house,” Grayson said.

  “Or Dreadmore,” Garth said.

  “That’s a lot of places,” Crum said, grimacing softly.

  I winced. “If this does turn out to be CWD, can it be treated?”

  Crum shook his head. “I’m afraid not. If it’s anything like Mad Cow Disease, every victim will be dead within a year.”

  “Oh.”

  Crum sighed. “Seeing as it’s nearly midnight, I suggest we all get some sleep and get cracking on this first thing in the morning.”

  “Right,” Wells said. “I’ll check out the Jenkins’ bunker at daybreak. Should I take any special precautions when handling the meat?”

  “Absolutely,” Crum said. “If I were you, I’d wear thick gloves and put the samples in evidence bags. If you have a cut or scrape on your skin, well, I don’t know if that would be enough to transmit the disease or not.”

  “Thanks,” Wells said. “Okay, everybody, you heard the doctor. Let’s reconvene in the morning.”