All The Beautiful People (A Dread Novel Book 1)

by Jonathan Yanez

  He couldn’t be more than 16. Wild hair hung close to his tired eyes as he stared back at her. “What? Do you have a problem?”

  Taylor rolled her eyes. With everything happening, a teenager with a bad attitude was the least of her problems. Why he was even there was something that seemed minuscule compared to the information they were all about to learn.

  “Thank you for coming,” Wade said in a voice that commanded attention. He could have saved the boom in his tone; all eyes were already on him. No sound other than the gum chewing of her adolescent neighbor met Taylor’s ears.

  “What you are all about to hear is the truth whether you accept it or not. I’ve received word from the Board that we will be holding nothing back. They have already contacted the CDC, our own government, and those of the countries where our drug has been shipped.”

  Wade took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the many people who were in attendance. Taylor knew it was impossible to look each and every single one of them in the eyes yet that was exactly what he was doing. Taylor almost felt bad for thinking he was going to try and kill them in their brief meeting, almost. It was clear to her now that he was sincere. As he continued his speech, she wondered how much of it was fact sharing and how much was a confession on behalf of the company. Wade’s voice never lost its firm handle on the room but something was added. Something extra hid in the brief pauses. It was sadness. Regret.

  “Four years ago Lazarus Pharmaceuticals undertook a project with the hopes of developing a drug that would enhance one’s perception of themselves. It was an attempt at happiness and joy. It was an alternative to anti-depression pills but an answer to those not happy with their inward mindset or outward appearance. It was designed to bring out the inner beauty we all possess. The medication was named Vanidrum. It was a success in trials. There were a few notable side effects as there are in any clinical study, but they were nothing like what we are seeing today.”

  Wade pressed a button on his podium bringing the four large monitors suspended above him to life. The screens jolted to attention with blank white screens. “Vanidrum was released to the public as a prescribed drug two weeks ago. It was a success, or so we thought. Last night, one of our Operators received a call regarding a possible issue with our product.”

  The room was so quiet Taylor heard Wade click another button from his podium control panel. Although she was twenty yards away from him, the distinct sound nearly echoed through the room. The screens lost their blank white image to a smiling image of James Jones. The man couldn’t be happier. In the picture he was wearing a cardigan, holding his wife in both arms. The couple was standing beside a pier. A blood-orange sun was sinking behind white-capped waves in the background. It was perfect.

  “Meet James William Jones,” Wade continued. “65 years old, an architect by trade, father of three, and loving husband. The picture we are looking at now was taken last week. The video I am about to show you next will be shocking to most but it is imperative that you understand the gravity of the situation.”

  Wade moved to the next screen. A gasp broke from every pair of lungs in the crowd. The only exceptions to the collective shock were Taylor and the teenage gum-smacker sitting next to her. Taylor didn’t need to look around to know what everyone’s face was depicting. They were confused and scared. Taylor examined the picture through the eyes of a researcher. She might as well have been looking at a mathematical equation. She didn’t see open wounds or the madness in the eyes staring back at her. She was gazing at a problem, searching for an answer. She looked for anything that might be able to give her a clue as to the progression of the disease or virus or the manic origination point.

  The video was of James Jones in a clean, bleached room with wrists and ankles secured to a metal chair, gnashing broken teeth. Guttural noises broke free from his throat. The sounds he made each began like a grunt or groan but ended one syllable short of a full word.

  It became apparent to Taylor that James Jones was regressing. The complete end game of Vanidrum had not yet manifested; he apparently had farther to fall. She struggled to conceive how much more degeneration James Jones could encounter. Wasn’t this it? How much further could he fade into the darkness? All signs of humanity were gone. Nothing was left of the once happy and successful man. This was a monster.

  Wade remained silent as the video continued. Mr. Jones was arching his back, struggling against the bonds restraining him to the chair. His face was a mess of brown and bright red blood. Gashes crisscrossed his flaking skin in a way that made it impossible to tell where one wound stopped and another began. His white hair was missing from his scalp in large clumps. Beyond disturbing, the sight was a state of physical decay Taylor didn’t know existed. It was madness at its apex.

  After a few moments, Wade paused the video. The screens stopped at a moment where what was left of James Jones was gnashing his remaining teeth at the camera in a kind of sadistic grin.

  “Since James Jones’ event last night, hundreds of reports have been called in across the globe. It seems as though Vanidrum has infected its hosts in a way that is baffling our scientists. None of this was even a remote possibility during clinical trials. Our job is to find out how to stop this. To do that, we have to understand how this started. As we speak, those already infected are spreading this unknown agent to new hosts of every age and race. If we can stop this now, we may have a chance at stopping a global epidemic. Which brings us to the reason we are all here. I’d like to introduce to you the leading mind in apocalyptic strategy and homo sapiens survival, Frank Caster.”

  Wade looked at Taylor and motioned with his hand. Taylor gave him a confused look then realized he was motioning to the kid sitting beside her. The boy who couldn’t even be enrolled in college stood with a loud pop of pink bubblegum.

  The youth walked down the set of stairs toward the podium leaving confusion in his wake. Taylor leaned into Jason. “Care to tell me what’s going on here? Another one of your buddies?”

  Jason looked as shocked as Taylor felt. “You got me,” he whispered back. “I’ve never seen him. I thought he was a lost intern.”

  When Frank reached the podium, he nodded to Wade and addressed the room.

  “So let’s get this out of the way,” he said, brushing unkempt hair from his eyes. “I know I’m super young to all of you but that shouldn’t matter. I know what I’m doing and I’m a lot smarter than anyone here. My IQ is probably higher than everyone in this room combined, so listen when I’m talking to you.”

  Taylor almost cracked a smile. Frank was trying to make up for his age by bullying the crowed but the inflexion of his tone was of a boy, not a man. The fact that he was wearing a t-shirt sporting a smiling cartoon character and jeans that looked like they had seen better years didn’t help.

  “I’ve run countless scenarios on how this event could end using the most state of the art programming and it’s not good. We have, oh, about a four-hour window to maintain a fifty-fifty chance of stopping this plague before it kicks our collective booties. And by ‘kick our collective booties,’ I mean exterminate the human race as we know it.”

  The audience sat stunned. Not only was there a teenage boy leading them now but also, if he was right, they were up against what could be mankind’s greatest threat. The matter-of-fact way Frank spoke sent a chill down even Taylor’s spine. He was so young, yet talked about the death of millions as though he was commenting on the weather.

  “I’ve put together a slide to show you. Every minute from here on out counts. Take a look.”

  The screens moved from their freeze-frame on James Jones’ husk of humanity to a black and blue diagram of the globe. The country in the center of the screen was the United States. Its familiar shape sat with a dark blue hue against the blackness of surrounding bodies of water.

  “So this is us,” Frank said, pointing a finger to the screen above him as a whole. “I only had a few minutes to put this together so it’s simple, but the red dots are ever
y known Vanidrum outbreak.”

  The shape depicting the United States broke out in what looked like a case of the chicken pox. Bright red dots filled every state from California to Maine.

  “So that’s as of now, and this is in the next twelve, then twenty-four hours.” Each red dot oozed out to the states around it, first slowly then picking up speed. If Frank was correct, in twenty-four hours a quarter of the United States would be infected. “The same holds true for every country across the globe. Time wouldn’t allow me to put together a similar diagram, but let your minds run with the worst possible scenario and you’re probably close.”

  Nervous whispers broke through the crowd like sporadic ripples on calm water.

  “Remember,” Frank said, “this is only a rough estimate based on records of who has taken the drug and how fast we know it can spread. The truth is, it could be a lot quicker. We only have a few reported cases on the time it takes for someone on Vanidrum to attack a bystander and then for that bystander to change into—into those things they are now—zombies or whatever you want to call them. So, now that you know the stakes let’s talk solution. Wade?”

  Wade tore his eyes from the screen of spreading red dots and moved to stand beside Frank. “I’m not going to sugarcoat anything. The short version of this is that we had a scientist who worked on the development of Vanidrum who did predict an outbreak like this. I already know what you are going to say, and you’re right. We should have listened. But even he didn’t predict an event to this degree. He was worried about what the drug could unleash in people. He had misgivings about the project’s ethical boundaries and resigned from Lazarus when we refused to put the brakes on developing the drug. Our hope is that if he knew something like this could happen then he also knows of a way to stop it.”

  Taylor’s mind was racing as fast as the cars near the end of a NASCAR race. She wondered how many people in the room were thinking the same things. The three thoughts winning the race for attention were: Lazarus really did it this time by not listening to one of their scientists; it was a definite leap to think this man also had a cure for what was going wrong with Vanidrum; and this was much bigger than she originally imagined.

  Sure, she knew things were serious. The madness of those she encountered on the drug, the security measures at the front gate, the involvement of the various governments—it was all bad, really bad. The detail that truly caused her to consider her calm demeanor was the diagram Frank showed the room. If this disease could spread as quickly as those red dots on the screen, they were all in an exceptionally serious amount of trouble.

  “You okay?” Jason whispered.

  Taylor thought about the question. It was ingrained in her at an early age to answer “yes” when someone asked that question. She was taught to smile past what you really thought and be pleasant.

  “No,” she said, “but I will be as soon as we can start doing something to stop this.”

  Frank’s young voice once again filled the room. “The scientist that Wade is speaking of is Doctor Thomas Jenkins.”

  The screens above Frank and Wade released their hold on the picture of impending doom, giving way to an image of a middle-aged man with glasses and a thick, graying beard. If Taylor were to picture a stereotypical scientist, this man would be it. He was small of stature with inquisitive eyes set behind his lenses and a look that said he wanted to know so much more than he could. Although the man was the focal point of the picture, it was the young girl next to him that caught Taylor’s eye.

  She was small, a little thing. Taylor was horrible at guessing children’s ages. If she had to, she would put the girl in the six-to-seven range. She was standing by Dr. Jenkins. The same look her father had, the same inquisitive expression, was spread over his daughter’s face. Her eyes were also the same. Wisdom in those blue orbs that hinted of knowledge reserved for someone twice her age.

  “The young girl in the picture is his daughter Cidney,” Frank said. “The photo was taken around the same time the doctor parted ways with Lazarus. We’ve tried to contact him since the events of last night, but there hasn’t been a response. Lucky for us, the doctor and his daughter live here in Los Angeles. A forty-five minute journey through a city that is falling apart as we speak.”

  “And that is why you are all here,” Wade said, stepping forward as though he and Frank were tag-teaming the room in a kind of verbal wrestling match. “You all possess the skills in combat, communications, field support, and technology that we will need to see this mission through. You all know the stakes. This could be the last shot we get at keeping this event from becoming something…apocalyptic. We get the doctor, we find the cure, and we live to see another day. Report to your department heads for your instructions. May God be with us all.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Taylor was chewing on a cellophane wrapped sandwich as she listened to Wade speak. She wasn’t hungry, but after missing lunch she knew her body needed the fuel. The poor soul in charge of making the sandwiches for the team needed a stint in culinary school. The graying meat was stuck in a stranglehold by a soggy tomato slice on one side of the sandwich. The combination of colors reminded Taylor of the blood she had witnessed pouring down the face of James Jones. The texture of the soggy bread didn’t help. Her imagination ran with the idea that she was somehow already infected with the disease and now tearing away at a human limb.

  After the meeting was dispersed, Taylor and Jason were asked to join Wade, Frank, and a well-muscled man old enough to be Taylor’s father in a private communication room.

  “Taylor, Jason, I’d like you to meet Frank Caster, whom you already heard speak, and Captain George Martin, who will be leading the team to reach Dr. Jenkins.”

  Taylor moved her less than delicious meal to her left hand and traded handshakes with both Frank and the captain. Looking at each of them, she could preconceive their handgrip strength. She could tell a lot about someone with a firm handshake compared to the opposite, which she referred to as “the limp fish.” Being a woman enabled her to further her assessment. Someone who gave her a limp shake due to her sex was only weak in her eyes. It showed they underestimated her.

  Captain Martin’s grip was firm and quick. Taylor felt the calluses across his paw of a hand, a trait that came with a lifetime of physical labor. In his case Taylor guessed hours at the gym and hand-to-hand combat training.

  Frank’s handshake, to his credit, was also strong, yet nowhere near the size or feel of the captain’s grip. Still, Frank wasn’t afraid to grab her hand and press with an appropriate amount of force.

  With introductions out of the way, Frank plopped himself into a black swivel chair in front of his desk and started clicking keys on a wireless keyboard. Taylor forced herself to chew the last bite of her sandwich, wondering if this was how cows felt munching tasteless grass in the field.

  Frank’s fingers were racing across the keyboard, striking buttons so fast each individual clicking sound melded into the next until you couldn’t tell where one keystroke ended and the other began. Bright colored energy drink cans lay littered across the computer desk. Each design was the same even if the colors varied. It was apparent the product merchandizing teams thought their customers would be big on extreme sports and large trucks.

  The scene reminded Taylor of a graveyard, though in place of bones there were empty cans and the occasional fast food wrapper in no discernible order. Wade’s voice broke through the symphony of key strokes as Frank pulled up a satellite view of the doctor’s house.

  Wade chewed on his lower lip deep in concentration. The only respite he allowed his lip came when he turned to Taylor.

  “Taylor, you and Frank will travel under a heavy security detail led by Captain Martin. Your mission is to find the doctor and bring him back. Jason and I will stay here, along with a communication and intelligence team to provide any support you need.” Wade allowed his eyes to travel to every member of the team, finally coming to a stop on the captain’s stern jaw.
“Captain, the floor is yours.”

  Captain Martin stood straight with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were narrowed in on the computer screen showing the aerial view of the doctor’s house.

  “We’ll be taking three vehicles through the city, each equipped with a six-man incursion team. Taylor and Frank will travel in the middle of the convoy with me. When we reach the house, my men will set up a perimeter and I will take Taylor and Frank inside to secure the doctor.”

  It was a simple plan. Taylor knew from experience that there were a million things that could go wrong, but plans needed to start somewhere. They would be required to adjust on the fly. From what she had seen of the captain’s personality, she had faith he would be able to do just that.

  Frank swiveled in his chair to look at Taylor. The gum he chewed popped between his jaws. “No offense, I get why everyone else is here, but what is it that you do, Taylor?”

  Taylor wasn’t used to answering to a teenager. Nonetheless, in the moment, she decided to adjust and play nice. “I get things done. What is it that you do? You’re an expert on the apocalypse and you have a bunch of degrees in the ‘end of times’? Can you even get your degree in that field? Is that a real thing?”

  Frank’s face tuned a bright shade of red. The years of experience he had yet to achieve spoke volumes as he struggled to control his temper. “For your information, I am the leading mind in my field. I even created and wrote the code for the program that is now used worldwide to predict how fast an apocalyptic event could spread. Can you calculate the rate to which a pathogen of unknown origin can spread to members living in a population of over one billion citizens? Because I can.”

  Taylor shrugged in mock defeat. “I guess you got me there, Super Boy.” She dropped the balled-up cellophane wrapper from her hand for effect, taking a step closer to Frank. “Although I can’t do that math if I wasn’t a professional, I could tell you how many places I could break your jaw and how long it would take my fist to reach your face.”