The Final Outbreak

by M. L. Banner

  Her mind was an ongoing battlefield where a war was being fought between the armies of good thoughts or memories and evil aspirations or desires. Whichever side won would claim her soul.

  At times, she was able to recall the delicate trickle of the lovely memories of Ted, her family, their home, and even her work. It was only during those times that she could actually find some peace and with it, sleep. But sleep, like the comforts of her old memories, was fleeting and brief.

  During the remaining moments—the majority of the time—her thoughts were a windswept mental seascape of sin, a tempest of anger, a downpour of hatred, a hurricane of murderous rage, a destructive desire for blood. And when these thoughts were allowed into her mind, she felt like she was set on an unstoppable course to kill, or to maim, or to at least hurt whoever got in her way. It was during those times, times like now, that she would find herself wide awake. Hyperventilating. Although she was always breathing as if she were hyperventilating. One of the many things that had changed in her.

  And it was all the changes that had manifested themselves inside her, and were still occurring, that led her to separate herself from Ted. He didn’t understand. But how could he? She didn’t really understand—was trying to understand—what was going on inside her brain and body.

  She had told him that she had to remain separate, because she didn't feel he would be safe around her. And this was partially true, because she was afraid that her terrifying desire for human flesh would be unstoppable in close quarters. And when either passion or anger sprang forth, it brought with it an overwhelming sensation, even an unquenchable thirst, for murder and blood. And these desires could arise with the simple whiff of her next meal, all because of her new ability to smell everything...

  Like some goddamn dog... Scratch that, like some damned hound from hell.

  Great, just like me to develop a dog ability.

  Most things simply smelled bad, like the body odor of another infected. But a non-infected’s smell was frighteningly the complete opposite. Because of this, she worried that even the mere aroma of the uninfected could set her off. And it was why she wore a swimming nose-plug: to stem the smells of those who were not infected, like her husband.

  But weren’t these all just excuses?

  After all, a part of her—an ever-shrinking part of her—that was still human and still loved him and badly needed him didn’t really believe she would allow that evil part of her to take total control and hurt him. Although she reasoned thus, with each internal battle between good and evil, and with each noticeable physical change, she was a little less sure of this.

  The largest part of her worry of their being together was that he would see the changes in her. And not just the physical.

  It was her internal battles that she wanted the most to hide from him. She feared—one of the few fears she possessed anymore—that he could see some horrendous evil inside of her. She couldn’t stand to see him repulsed by her becoming some sort of monster. That’s really what kept her away. So she told herself, and him, that this separation would only last until she could figure this thing out. And get control of it.

  This made sense to both of them, since she always had control of things. Even when she was deathly afraid of animals, she remained in control by staying out of situations where fear would rear its ugly head. In this way, she didn’t allow fear to control her. Amongst all of the new changes in her, she’d lost her fear of animals, along with all the other normal human fears. Ironically, the less fear she felt, the more she felt like she was losing control.

  Something outside of her consciousness was fighting for possession of her mind and body, tempting her with euphoric tastes and desires, and alluring her with fantastic abilities. But she would continue to fight for her humanity, even though she didn’t know what it was going to do with her next. She wasn’t going to let it win. Whatever it was.

  “Yeah, I know what you are,” she stated out loud so it could hear her. As if it worked that way.

  She guessed that she must have been originally infected with this parasite when she was viciously attacked by that crazed dog. Ted said the dog’s saliva could have introduced the parasite into her bloodstream. He had also said that this parasite had been around for centuries; it just wasn’t as widespread until recently. And when the thermo-bacilli were spewed into the atmosphere, that’s what ignited this whole apocalypse upon them.

  She once more was surprised to find herself stopped, mid-step from her pacing, standing before the cabin’s full-length mirror. There, she examined herself.

  TJ found comfort in the darkness during moments like this, even though in this mirror, she could see the details of her own face and body. The colors were all different without light. She wasn’t sure if there were any colors in the darkness, with her mind filling in the colors, albeit poorly.

  Once again, she marveled at the physical changes which had occurred, as she focused on her chest rising and falling.

  She had to admit that she was thrilled to have gained the ability to see not only long distances, but in the dark as well. Her whole life—at least for as long as she could remember—she was plagued with grotesque nearsightedness, barely able to see past her own two feet. She always wore glasses, giving her a bookish look during puberty. Later in life she found the freedom of contacts, and that’s when the boys started to notice her more. Later still, as she got older, she could see a little better at a distance, while at the same time losing her ability to see things close. But all that changed with her rebirth. But with her new sight abilities came her creepy red eyes. Or at least one red eye.

  She leaned over to the light switch, flipped it on and completely blinded herself.

  After shaking away ghostly white flashes, she resumed her place in front of the mirror, where she examined her eyes again. She had to force herself not to squint against the cabin’s bright lights.

  Both Dr. Molly Simmons and Ted had explained that it had something to do with the loss of melanin. Gone were her blue eyes. One now was a pinkish-blue and the other a bright crimson—like blood. The same hue as those of her symptomatic brothers and sisters who seemed to have turned crazy after their own rebirths. They told her that the loss of melanin drained her of her color. But it wasn’t just her eyes; it was her skin too.

  In the stark lighting of this cabin, she now looked like death warmed over. And with each day, her skin lost more of its life. She was becoming some sort of albino. Although never dark-skinned—far from it—she at least had had a little pigment, especially in contrast to her blonde hair. She had even hoped to add to her skin’s color on this cruise, by spending time in the warmth of the sun.

  But I can at least do something about my outward appearance.

  She shed her clothes and stepped into the cool spray of the shower—the lever at its coldest setting—and she washed away the grime that clung to her, more naturally than before.

  After drying off, she slid on a fresh set of exercise clothes, her normal uniform now. The material breathed, allowing her to stay cool, which was of the utmost importance now. And because it was so form-fitting, she felt she had a free range of motion, which also felt important if she had to use her new abilities.

  After pulling her hair into a tight ponytail, she grabbed the bottle of self-tanning lotion from the counter. She procured this from the same place she’d found the swimmer’s nose plugs: the ship’s gift shop. After shaking it up, she squeezed a healthy portion onto a palm and then smoothed it into one arm and then the other.

  Not bad, she thought after examining her work.

  She applied lotion up her shoulders, around the exposed skin of her chest, and then felt skilled enough at this to apply some to her blanched face.

  She scrutinized herself in the bathroom mirror.

  This might actually work.

  After making sure she was well covered, she applied just a little makeup, finding a rosier color of lipstick than she would have normally worn: like the rest of her
skin, her lips needed all the help they could get.

  Finally she stepped back and analyzed herself against a mental picture of what was previously “normal,” turning and tilting her head at different angles for confirmation. She felt like she was ready.

  85

  Molly

  Dr. Molly Simmons removed her glasses and attempted to rub away the fatigue nested in her eyes. Last she looked, her scleras were as red as the irises of her parasitic subjects. It was no use. She was done.

  She gave up holding herself erect, now allowing her body to tilt backwards in the reclining chair the captain had given her. This gift was so she could do her work better. “Work? Ha!” she chided herself.

  I’m supposed to be a retired parasitologist. Key word is retired.

  With her eyes closed, and her back finally supported for the first time in hours, Molly considered what led to these late hours of work on a former luxury cruise ship.

  Before retirement, when she had been working regular hours—another oxymoronic concept for a scientist at any age—all she did was research, usually for corporate laboratories, whose sole interest was in finding the next big cure for the various parasitic illnesses. After she retired, she wrote a few papers on some of the potential coming crises that could come from some of the bigger parasitic challenges, including the subject of her current research, Toxoplasmosis. It was her futurist predictions that garnered her some of her notoriety.

  With this notoriety came offers to speak, but she rarely accepted them. After all, she was retired. She did accept a couple of offers so she could also to visit her daughter in Northern Florida. Most recently it was the opportunity see her granddaughter in France, whom she hadn’t seen since before she was married. So she traveled across the Atlantic to give a speech to a bunch of stodgy old men—there were few women in her field in Europe. And that was the extent of her “work,” at least before this cruise.

  When she had worked, there were few pressures other than those of self-imposed deadlines. She had loved every moment of what she did, even the long hours in her lab. She hated her work now.

  The self-imposed pressures to find answers for her captain, her new author-friend Ted Williams and all the people on her ship were almost debilitating.

  She breathed out a long groan, an equal mixture of frustration at being in this position and the extreme exhaustion she was feeling. The lack of sleep was at the root of all of this.

  She’d slept little on this ship. How could she, as she was spending every waking moment reacting to one colossal problem after another? That was the nub of it. Proper research was never done during a crisis. It should be conducted in the vacuum of discovery, with lots of time. No matter the problem, she knew she could discover an answer, if given enough time. And it was often the motivation that drove her. That and a good laboratory.

  She snickered at this, since her laboratory now was a videotape room and a couple of video cameras trained on her subjects.

  Molly let her mind wander as she felt the weight of her eyelids, relishing these rare moments of peace and self-reflection... And no back pain, she thought.

  It must have been the angle in which she was resting in this chair, and the pillows she had jammed around it. Her disease-riddled back often screamed at her to change position every few minutes. Rarely could she consciously remember not feeling that screaming pain. Not even in the soft beds the ship provided. She could almost fall asleep here. But her mind was racing too much.

  So she took this opportunity to reflect on something delightful: her travel abroad and seeing her granddaughter’s new family. Hard to believe that it had all started three weeks ago. It felt longer.

  Molly’s granddaughter Lola and her French husband Claude had encouraged her to accept the speaking engagement and go on this cruise. That’s exactly what Molly did, first spending time with Lola and Claude on his family’s winery in the Loire region of France.

  She caught her breath when her mind wondered about their current fate. She now illogically reasoned that they’d be safe there; that they’d be left untouched by this apocalypse. She couldn’t bear to think otherwise.

  After her visit, Molly was the guest of the Universitat de Barcelona, Spain, speaking to some of the world’s leading parasitologists at an annual conference. She had warned them all about a pending crisis, saying that all the signs were there, with increased animal attacks, along with widespread paranoia and schizophrenic behavior in humans. She shook her head at how right she was about that.

  After this, she headed to Malaga to board the cruise ship, with the single goal of relaxing while sailing across the Atlantic. She had brought a couple of books to read, but mostly she would enjoy the pleasure of being waited on by someone who wasn’t one of her family members. The whole trip would have culminated with Molly meeting up with her daughter in Florida.

  But then the world fell apart.

  She sprang forward in her chair, sling-shotting her spiking anger toward her desk, so she could address the perpetrator of this apocalypse. She stared down at her desktop; a printout of the giant-sized protozoa gazed back. “It’s all because of you!” She punched the color-enhanced photograph, a close-up of a toxoplasma gondii parasite. “You’re the cause of this whole mess.” Her forefinger sliced down on the parasite’s picture, as if it were that easy to do harm to this microscopic monster.

  Her anger quickly subsided, and so did the rest of her energy. With this and her quick movements, the chronic pain in her back had returned in full force. She tried again to alleviate this, by falling back again into her chair and the comfort it provided. There was a reason why she had retired: she was too damned old for these late-night research events. But there was no use in complaining about this, was there? she again chided herself.

  This time, she sat up more gingerly and leaned into her desk, organizing the papers which currently littered its top.

  The recent online research papers Mr. Buzz had found for her on university databases had proven invaluable to her research. He was somehow able to rig up a way to connect up to their servers even though he said most of the Internet was down. She didn’t exactly understand how it all worked, only that Mr. Buzz said he used some sort of mesh network connection to search and find digitized texts, studies, and other useful information, based on some select keywords Molly had given him. All of which he had printed for her.

  She had just read through a majority of the recent batch. With these, she was able to compare the most current T-Gondii research studies with what she and Mr. Deep had observed. She sat up straighter in her seat, now looking at her pages of notes chronicling what they now knew based on their own empirical observations.

  So much had changed with what they’d learned over the six days of their observing the parasitics they had locked up in the ship’s largest lounge.

  At first, they seemed no more than wild animals, uniquely focused on destruction and murder. At least that was what they had all first thought, even Molly. They had destroyed pretty much everything in their path. They were still cleaning up and fixing large parts of the ship, with some repairs expected to take weeks or longer to complete. The lounge where they were being held was emblematic of this: most of the seats were ripped apart; the batting covered everything, like a heavy snowfall. And as driven as they appeared to be by destruction, they were perhaps even more driven by their appetites.

  They ate more food by body weight than what they did as humans, from the limited evidence they had so far. Molly immediately guessed this was because of their highly increased metabolisms, which had to be working overtime to maintain their accelerated activity and newly elevated body heat.

  And in spite of the inactivity her ship had forced upon them with the cold temperatures, the parasitics’ physical needs to fuel their accelerated metabolisms still meant lots more food. This explained their early rampage and eating of fellow passengers and crew.

  Of course, they couldn’t very well feed them live humans... She snickered
at the thought of feeding some of the more problematic passengers, like Hans, to them. So they turned to raw meat, which seemed to be the only food they’d eat. But this changed fairly quickly after the first day. And it made complete sense.

  As was the case with mammals in the wild, when their body heat was threatened, and after they had satiated themselves, they were forced to find ways to maintain their body temperature, and often go into a hybernative state. And that’s what their parasitics had done.

  But their parasitics were much more than wild animals. They were humans, and now humans with extra abilities.

  She shuffled through her neatly hand-written pages, to re-examine her notes from last night.

  It was her worst fear that these parasitics, who at first appeared to be just irrational animals, would start to use their cognitive abilities and apply them along with their new abilities.

  And now they had proof that this was happening, along with one more new ability they had learned about last night. She needed to share these with Ted.

  “Oh no!” she quipped, turning around to look at the clock by her bed. She was going to be late for her meet-up with Ted.

  As she moved toward the bathroom to clean up, she shuddered at her thoughts about what these new discoveries would mean for all of them.

  86

  In The Air

  Flavio & Vicki

  “And when the whole thing was all sixes and sevens; Sean went all monkey on the zombies. And then Liz just smiled at him, as if it was the most adorable thing she’d ever seen.” Vicki snorted at her story. But then something remarkable happened: her laughter exploded and seemed almost uncontrollable. But just as quickly as her jovial wellspring had burst, she cut herself off. “I’m sorry, I just loved that part...”

  Flavio couldn’t help but flash his own huge grin at her as she continued her narrative about some unknown scene from her favorite movie, Sean of the Dead, which he had never seen. And he wasn’t really paying attention to her scene descriptions, much less trying to understand the movie she was describing to him. He was too enamored by her performance and her genuine enthusiasm. It was one of the most beautiful sights he’d witnessed in recent memory. Not that he could remember many beautiful things. But he could stare at her for hours.