Virulent: The Release

by Shelbi Wescott

  “Explain,” Lucy commanded, shifting her black and white herringbone book bag up on her shoulder. She shoved her books into the open locker, her three-ring binder, and the mounds of work that would inevitably ruin her vacation.

  “Grant Trotter.”

  Lucy shook her head. The name didn’t mean anything to her.

  “Oh, really? Tall. Blonde-ish. Pole-vaulter. Dated Bianca-dad-buys-everyone-beer-Nelson?” She paused for a second. “Anyway, he dumped Holly during their first date. Just told her that it wasn’t going to work and took her home. Right then and there. That’s like some serious movie crap right there. Who does he think he is?”

  “A guy who knows what he wants?” Lucy replied, feeling her phone vibrate against her leg and ignoring it.

  Salem stuck a bony finger into Lucy’s face. “Don’t get cheeky with me. That’s a major self-esteem deflater. She’s going to require so much coddling now just to get out of the house! Boys are so stupid. Lie. Right? Just lie like the rest of them? Hey, Holly, I’m totally into you. Kiss her. Then don’t call. Am I wrong here? Wait,” she hushed her voice and drew her mouth close to Lucy’s ear, her breath warming the side of Lucy’s face in short bursts, “that’s him. Look. Look.”

  With a furtive glance, Lucy followed Salem’s line-of-sight and spotted the offender; leaning against a locker, his hair flopping to the side, haphazardly whisked away from his eyes and his hands shoved deep inside a Pacific Lake High School hooded sweatshirt, shoulders rounded as he slouched. His group of friends laughed at someone’s joke, but Grant only smirked, rolling his shoulders forward even more and eyeing the ground. When he glanced up, he looked straight to Salem, pulling his hand out halfway for a noncommittal wave.

  And just like that, the war was over. Salem waved back and twirled a long curl between her ring and middle finger. “I guess he’s not so bad,” Salem declared. “Holly’s a total bore one-on-one anyway, and she does have that misshapen nostril.”

  Lucy snorted. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just wait. Next time you see her, check it out? It’s freakish.”

  “You notice her nostrils?”

  “Bike accident.” Salem shrugged as if this common knowledge disinterested her.

  When Lucy turned back toward the group at the lockers, Grant was still looking in their direction.

  She smiled. A crooked-tight-lipped smile and then cast her eyes toward a neighboring bulletin board, exercising an interested stare at the ripped motivational posters encouraging her to “Look to the future! Attend college!” with multi-racial friends all sharing a toothy laugh.

  The bell rang. Lucy muttered a goodbye and kissed the air in Salem’s direction, then skipped and drifted to her next class.

  Halfway during Trigonometry, after Lucy had endured a short geography lesson with her Seychelles-ignorant math teacher and promised that she’d plug along through the four chapters of work, (even though she was certain that was more than they’d complete in her absence, especially considering Mr. Hegleton’s tedious review sessions and a tendency to dedicate entire class sessions to discussing Doctor Who) Ethan sent her an urgent text.

  “In trouble. Ride home with Sal.”

  A command. Not a suggestion. Ethan was a reliable ride home, so trouble was good for no one.

  “Explain. Mom and Dad?” Lucy texted back.

  “Anna.”

  Lucy’s older brother Ethan had an evil girlfriend named Anna.

  She may not have been the embodiment of evil, but vilifying her had morphed into a pastime that neither she nor Salem was willing to abandon. Ethan had graduated two years ago and instead of venturing to the University of Colorado where a handsome scholarship awaited him, he enrolled at Portland State and became a commuter student. He was eager to leave his part-time job and his once close-knit group of friends, but for some inexplicable reason, he was reluctant to leave his clingy, cloying, and altogether horrific high school girlfriend.

  Anna, a senior, already acted like she was marrying into the King family.

  She would say things like, “How are Mom and Dad?” which made Lucy’s stomach flip-flop.

  And Anna was popular on the basis of merely being involved in everything. A random assessment of the school day would determine that she never attended an academic class. She made posters with the leadership class, delivered notes as an office aide, sang soprano in the choir, ran the fastest mile in gym class, and made key-chains in Exploratory Metals. One thing that Anna could not do, however, was basic math or construct a passable essay.

  Things had taken a turn for the worst when Lucy showed up in the library during her peer tutor hours for National Honor Society and it was Anna who needed assistance. If she hadn’t hated her before, spending two hours trying to eke an intelligent thought out of her on the theme of Hamlet was enough to do the trick.

  Lucy growled at her phone. A few heads snapped up to look at her and she ignored them. “Jerk,” she typed.

  “Shut up,” he quickly shot back.

  “Break. Up. With. The. Bitch,” Lucy suggested.

  Ethan didn’t text back.

  “Thanks. Eternally,” Lucy said as she climbed into Salem’s decade-old Honda Civic. The interior smelled of stale French fries and vanilla body-spray; the passenger side floorboard was littered with half-full soda bottles that rolled around with each turn, hitting Lucy’s feet with soft thuds.

  Salem pulled out of the school parking lot and traveled past the strip mall and the Lutheran church, up the hill, and into the row of tract homes where Lucy and the King brood lived.

  “Have fun,” Salem said, as she pulled into the long driveway lined with well-groomed shrubbery. “I’m trying not to be jealous.”

  “You should just own your jealousy,” Lucy suggested. “It’s healthier. Besides, I’d be hate-filled and moody if you were taking off for two weeks and leaving me to fend for myself in the trenches.”

  “I’ll keep good notes on all major events.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  “When you come back it will almost be Spring Break. Do you know what happens in April?” Salem asked with mock-excitement.

  “It stops raining.”

  “It never stops raining.”

  “It will be our last full month of high school?”

  Salem nodded, “Yes. That. Then May. And then prom. It will be our senior prom.”

  Lucy groaned and reached for the handle. Dresses and corsages, awkward conversations with boys who needed remedial dating lessons from their mothers—the whole institution of prom was a frightening prospect, but at some point in her attempt to be a quality best friend, Lucy had agreed to attend with Salem. Sometimes she would lie awake at night already regretting the evening.

  Salem’s phone broke out into a pop ballad about feeling trapped in love. It was the ringtone she selected for her mother. She held her finger up to deter Lucy from sneaking away and answered the call.

  “Hello Mom,” she said. In the quiet of the car, Lucy could hear a shrill and riled voice; Mrs. Aguilar barked on the other end of the line with indecipherable syllables of anger and grief. Salem looked confused, then worried, but soon she erupted into full shock—her mouth a slack O—she gasped and bit her lip. “Ay Dios mio.” She shook her head. “Mom. Wait. Mom. Are you sure?”

  Lucy leaned in, concerned for her friend. “What?” she whispered. “What?” But Salem turned her face to the driver’s window; she kept her back to her friend, and it was then when Lucy noticed that Salem was shaking. Small tremors rippled down her back and her hand couldn’t keep the phone steady. Fear and concern overwhelmed Lucy. Instinctively, she placed a comforting hand on Salem, waiting for the conversation to end. Lucy was self-aware enough to know she was ill-equipped to traverse the delicate minutiae of other people’s grief. Something big was happening with Salem, and she sat there like an awkward lump, already hoping that there would be appropriate words to say.

  “I’ll be right there. Mom. Mo-m. I
’ll be right there,” Salem finally got a word in. She hung up the phone and dropped it into her empty cup-holder. Her eyes were wet when she turned to Lucy.

  “Sal,” Lucy started. “What’s wrong? I’m so sorry. What’s wrong?” She heard her own voice waver and she took a deep breath to steady it.

  “It’s Bogie,” Salem replied. Lucy let out a slow breath. Bogie was the Aguilar family dog; he was a Rottweiler beagle mix whom Lucy had known since he was a puppy. Bogart was a prized possession, a member of the family. He was young and healthy and every night he slept curled up at Salem’s feet. Salem loved that dog more than anything, and Lucy searched for perfect words of comfort while gearing up for tragic news.

  “Oh. Sal. Please...don’t tell me...”

  “My mom came home and found him...just gone.”

  “Missing?” Lucy held her breath, hoping that maybe he’d just gone exploring, he’d return. Catastrophe averted. Histrionics unnecessary.

  Salem let out a small sob. “No Lucy...gone. Gone. Like, dead. Just in the middle of the kitchen floor, like he was asleep. But he wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving. My mom looked around, thought maybe he had eaten something bad for him.”

  “And?”

  “Lucy, I don’t know. I don’t know!” She stared at her friend wide-eyed and frantic. “I mean…what’s happening? What is this? Some cruel joke?”

  “I’m so sorry,” was all Lucy knew to say, and she reached out again to put a hand on Salem, but Salem pulled away.

  “No! You don’t get it! Listen to me. They just are all gone. All of them.”

  There was a pause and Lucy stopped. She gathered her hands into her lap and wrapped them in a ball; dread formed in her stomach, uneasiness replaced pity. “What do you mean?”

  “My mom called the vet, but the line was busy, so she went over to our neighbor's house. She was distraught, right? And our neighbor opened the door just sobbing.”

  The car fell quiet. Outside a motorcycle roared passed. Its engine grew louder and then faded away.

  Salem turned to Lucy. “All the dogs, Lucy. All the dogs are dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  24-hours after the Release

  Matriarch Mama Maxine King was short and stocky with wide hips and a helmet of full-bodied brunette hair. Her home was run with military precision; mixed with equal parts tenderness, unabashed sarcasm, and a healthy dose of profanity (usually directed at people on the television, rarely her kids, but sometimes her kids). Her kids’ ages spanned fourteen years with Ethan at twenty to Lucy, the second-oldest at seventeen, followed by Galen at thirteen, and the twins Monroe and Malcolm at ten. The baby, Harper, was six years old.

  Strangers liked to ask Maxine, in grocery lines or at restaurants, about the size of her family, usually to offer sainthood or astonishment disguised as praise. Maxine would smile and say, “After you’re outnumbered it doesn’t really matter how many kids you have. And I certainly don’t deserve an award for having a well-used uterus.” It was her oft-repeated line to strangers that made each kid groan with embarrassment not only because they never wanted to hear their mother say the word uterus, but also because they wished she would come up with a different joke.

  But while Mama Maxine, as friends of the King kids affectionately called her, handled her six children with tough-love lectures, peppered with facetiousness, she was also the picture of equanimity. And love. Mama Maxine loved each child who entered her home as her own, prompting scores of Pacific Lake teenagers to declare an unyielding allegiance to the woman.

  Lucy had handled the news of the nationwide dog crisis with panic. What had been deemed a “Targeted Dog Massacre” by local reporters, the televisions networks exacerbated the story even further, which catapulted the craziness to the Internet, which led to conspiracy theorists pontificating about doomsday scenarios. For dinner that night, her mother put a moratorium on discussion about the dead dogs—angrily shooting an evil eye at any child daring enough to mention the atrocities in front of Harper.

  And when Lucy was caught texting and messaging Salem into the wee hours of the morning, comforting her weepy and inconsolable friend, Maxine made a surprise visit and threatened to confiscate the phone. Even through her agitation and worry, Lucy allowed her body to sleep and dream about lounging on white sandy beaches and working on her tan.

  She awoke to the rambling of her mother’s to-do list as her mother stood by the foot of her bed, pulling her comforter off her body and exposing her skin to the cold house.

  “I need your carry-on bag and your monogrammed tote in the hall in twenty minutes. Hair-brushed, breakfast eaten, schoolwork packed. Limo arrives in an hour to take us to the airport and I will not be delayed. Lucy Larkspur King, I swear to the Lord Almighty that I will leave you behind. Do you hear me? I let you sleep in beyond all reason. Now get your bony ass out of this bed and into gear. Come child. Chop, chop.”

  Then she was off, her feet clomping down their carpeted hallway like a whole herd of mothers, off to rouse her next child with empty threats of abandonment.

  Lucy rubbed sleep out of her eyes and swung her feet down to the floor. She leaned over and grabbed her phone—as per her morning ritual—checking for late-night missed texts from Salem, but there was nothing new from her friend.

  But a second-glance at her feed made Lucy gasp. Tragedy abounded. The dogs, and now other beloved pets, were falling to some mysterious illness, and someone’s grandma had passed on during the night too while a few others complained of an impending flu. Several people linked to an article about the animal deaths and someone suggested contaminated drinking water was the cause. The feed was a veritable plethora of honest-to-God sadness and bandwagon melodramas.

  She heard her mom walking back in her direction and Lucy darted out into the hallway, phone in-hand, and tripped over the line of luggage—set up like soldiers marching off to war.

  “Mom,” Lucy said and brandished her phone like a weapon. “Have you heard about all of this? Now they say that someone poisoned our water. The water! Mom, someone thinks that people are going to die from this! Like…actual humans now? Mom! This is serious.”

  Maxine put her hand on Lucy’s phone and pushed it down toward the floor. “I already talked to your dad. He says there’s nothing to worry about. If we needed to worry, he’d know Lucy.”

  “He’s not here?” Lucy gripped her phone tighter. His absence made her anxious—her father was a masterful voice of reason, a beacon of calm. He never used profanity.

  “He’s meeting us at the airport. Some meeting he couldn’t get out of.” Maxine made an attempt to scoot around Lucy, but she remained rooted, legs outstretched, hands across her chest. “Fifty-minutes Lucy. Fifty-minutes.”

  “Mom,” Lucy repeated. She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Mom.” Then just, “I’m scared.”

  For a brief second, she thought she saw her mother’s own fear flicker across her face, but then her mom smiled and leaned in, kissed her on the forehead, and moved her out of the way. “Look, maybe some sicko poisoned all the pets. And I hope they catch him, or her, and throw them into the far reaches of hell...but when it comes to disasters, I trust your father. By the time we land in paradise, we won’t be thinking about any of this fear mongering. I haven’t had a vacation in six years...six years! So. Get.” She swatted her hand against Lucy’s backside and with a nod took off grabbing one suitcase with her.

  Lucy watched her mom walk out of sight and then ducked back into her room and shut the door; she dialed her father’s phone without thinking. She needed to talk to him, needed to hear the reassurance herself. It rang and rang before her dad finally picked up.

  “Morning sweetie,” her dad said as he picked up the phone. Before Harper arrived, Lucy was the only girl in a house of smelly, fighting, dirt-loving boys. Her father doted on her, but he never called her princess, never made her feel like she was special just because she was a girl; he always said awkward things like, “Hey, darling, I just wanted to let y
ou know that I’m so proud of you for your eighty-six percent in math class. You’re trying so hard.” It was like he read a chapter in a parenting book about raising strong, self-confident daughters and followed it to the letter. It would have been more helpful if he had read a book on how to deal with painfully self-aware and awkward daughters with moderate ambitions.

  “Dad? Have you seen the news? Mom is all on some Seychelles-inspired happy-juice, but Dad…Dad. This is ridiculous. Are we actually just going to pretend that this isn’t happening? Did someone poison the dogs, Dad?” She took a breath.

  “Lucy—”

  “Does that mean that someone poisoned all the animals?”

  “Please, Lucy—”

  “It’s a big deal, Dad. And why aren’t we talking about it? And why did you have to work today? Didn’t your job give you this vacation as a reward? Can’t they let you actually have the day your vacation starts off from work?” She flopped herself back down on the edge of her bed and bounced her knee in agitation.

  “It’s okay to be worried, sweetheart,” her father’s calm voice said back to her. “I think the news is worrisome. But you are not in danger. I am giving you my word. And, as an added bonus, reason number fifty-two why I’m glad we don’t have pets.” He chuckled, but then trailed-off. “Darling, I’m sorry. But I don’t know what you want me to do. You have a limo to the airport in a bit. Focus on that for me.”

  “Can’t a poison that hurts animals also hurt people?”

  Lucy’s dad drew in a quick breath and then let out a sigh. “Yes. It’s very possible.”

  “Then how can you say—”

  “My sweet girl,” her father was quiet for a beat. “I don’t know anything that could help you here and I have to go. I do. I have a plane to catch too. Okay? See you at the airport. Vacation of a lifetime. Right?”

  She grumbled into the phone a defeated growl. “Fine. The rest of the world will be in shambles,” she glanced down again at her phone and scrolled through some new articles, “with some new strain of flu virus? The news is saying that...Dad?” There was no answer.