Frenzied - A Suspense Thriller

by Brandon Massey

  “She’s with the CDC?” he whispered to Jim. “Damn, I should have studied harder in school.”

  “Down, boy.” Jim winked at Deacon.

  The woman was one of the last to exit the vans, and she wore the same uniform as the others. She chatted with her team for a moment, and then broke from the cluster of scientists and approached their group. Deacon realized that she was actually in charge.

  She looks like a model, he thought. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he chastised himself. With her looks, she probably had a difficult time getting people to take her seriously. He had dated his share of beautiful women before, had heard their accounts of how good looks brought benefits, but could be a double-edged sword when it came to the work world. As tough as it would be, he would have to view this woman solely from a professional perspective.

  “I’m Dr. Hannah Bailey, and I’m the lead EIS officer here,” she said. “You all are? Your name and role, please.”

  Each of them introduced themselves. She repeated what each of them said, as if committing each face and name to memory, and shook everyone’s hand with a firm grip, her own hands already protected by latex gloves.

  “I’ll give you an overview of how this investigation will proceed,” Dr. Bailey said, her gaze sweeping across them. “Primarily, at this point, our objective is to gather information. Each of you has an important perspective. We’ll interview and examine each of you, and then we’ll talk to and examine those who are displaying symptoms of illness. From there, we’ll form an initial diagnosis and determine next steps.”

  “Are we allowed to leave?” Rita asked. “I have a toddler in daycare. I’ve got to be there to pick him up this evening.”

  “For public safety reasons, no one should leave until we know, definitively, what we’re dealing with.” Dr. Bailey softened her words with a smile. “However, we can’t detain you here against your will. There’s no quarantine order, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I’d greatly appreciate if you would stay and help us until we’ve reached a diagnosis. After we get set up, we can assist you with making arrangements for your children or other family members.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay,” Rita said, shaking her head. “I just can’t.”

  “So much for sacrificing for the greater good,” Jim said.

  “Mind your business, old man.” Rita’s eyes were black bullets.

  “All right, let’s stay respectful of one another,” Deacon said. “Like the doctor said, everyone still has the right to leave. If you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  “If you’re going to go, ma’am, we’d like to get some contact information from you first,” Dr. Bailey said. “And examine you and draw some blood. You came in direct contact with patients who visited the clinic.”

  “Fine, but I’m not staying here,” Rita said, arms crossed over her chest.

  “We’ll need to set up an operations hub, somewhere with plenty of enclosed spaces, preferably,” Dr. Bailey said. She looked at Deacon. She had beautiful hazel eyes, Deacon noted. Eyes he could have dipped in like oceans.

  Focus, man, he chided himself.

  “On the way here, I reviewed a map of this community,” she continued. “The clubhouse seems like it would serve well.”

  “It’s perfect,” Deacon said. “It has the ballroom, the restaurant, meeting rooms . . . there’s plenty of square footage there. I can help your team with logistics.”

  “I’m with him,” Jim said. “Whatever you need us to do.” He glanced at Rita. “We’re all about the greater good.”

  Rita muttered under her breath.

  “I’d appreciate that, sirs,” Dr. Bailey said, and offered a brief smile. She clasped her hands together. “We need to move quickly now. Until we know exactly what we’re dealing with, time is of the essence.”

  Chapter 15

  After he helped to change the ruined tire on Wayne Purdue’s pickup, Alex and his new friend rode back to Wayne’s house. As they drove through South Haven, Alex could hear the soldier writhing and muttering in the flatbed like a man in the throes of a serious fever.

  Wayne didn’t speak during the short drive, and that was fine with Alex. He was still processing the day’s events, trying to cope with that sense of unreality that had taken hold of him.

  Besides, what did you talk about when both of you had just dealt with something from out of a horror film?

  What Alex didn’t allow himself to do was think about Melissa. The grief would cripple him. He wanted to keep moving forward, stay in motion, in the hope that sheer momentum would enable him to find his footing in this strange new reality. He would help this man, Wayne—who seemed to know more than he did about what was unfolding—until he regained his equilibrium.

  Wayne pulled into his driveway.

  He lived on the opposite side of South Haven, in a large white Craftsman with red trim. It had an attached two-car garage. A purple and gold LSU flag fluttered from the porch. The landscaping was meticulously maintained: petunias, lilies, and hibiscus thrived in the flowerbeds.

  It didn’t look like the home of a man who talked about the end of the world with a casual earnestness that Alex found downright bizarre.

  “Nice house,” Alex said.

  Wayne grunted. “Lived here three years. Moved here when my daughter got her vet practice going. We decided to put our practices together. I’m an equine vet.”

  “Horses?” Alex asked.

  Wayne nodded. “I handle the large animals, she takes care of the little ones. Was working out fine until this morning.” Wayne’s face darkened.

  Alex didn’t want to ask what happened that morning, but he could imagine it had something to do with Wayne’s daughter. Perhaps he and this man were drawn together by tragedy.

  Wayne opened his door and squinted at him. “You coming? We gotta get this boy squared away.”

  “What’s his name?” Alex asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The soldier. What’s his name?”

  “Clay,” Wayne said. He nodded at a house across the street. “Clay Kenmore. Lives over there with his mama. She ain’t home so we gotta take care of him. Agree with that, hombre?”

  “No problem,” Alex said. “Let’s do it.”

  ***

  They carried Clay inside through the garage. Bound at wrists and ankles, the guy was probably only half-conscious due to the tranquilizer, but nonetheless furious at being restrained: he called them insurgents and promised to decapitate them, speaking in that nearly incoherent scramble of words that Alex was getting accustomed to hearing. Alex tuned him out.

  A silver Toyota Highlander occupied one of the garage parking slots. A bumper sticker designed like an animal’s paw print was stuck to the SUV’s rear cargo door, the words “Purdue Vet Clinic” underneath the paw in red text.

  His daughter’s vehicle, Alex thought. She must have been home.

  Inside, the house was fastidiously clean. Alex spotted modern appliances, fabric furniture in mellow earth tones, photographs of animals hanging on the walls. A flat-screen TV in the kitchen broadcast local news, and caused Alex to do a double-take; it looked as if the news crew was right there in South Haven. That might have explained the helicopters he had heard.

  Wayne opened the basement door, off the end of the kitchen. They took the soldier down a wide flight of wooden steps, and into a dimly-lit sitting area outfitted with a sectional sofa.

  “Let’s set him down here,” Wayne said, indicating the couch. “I’ll be right back.”

  Wayne left through a door that led to another area of the basement, using a key to unlock the door. The soldier lay on his back across the cushions, mumbling to himself and struggling half-heartedly.

  Alex looked around.

  This section of the basement was completely finished. The area had laminate flooring designed to look like hardwood, the large L-shaped sofa, a massive flat-screen television, and a wooden coffee table that appeared as if it had been carved by hand fro
m a tree stump. Framed LSU sports memorabilia hung on the brick walls. A mini-refrigerator standing in the corner hummed quietly. It looked like nothing more than the well-appointed man cave of a proud college fan.

  But Alex’s stomach had tightened into a knot. He knew virtually nothing about this man. Yet he was there, sitting in his house with someone they had essentially taken prisoner, waiting for . . . what, exactly?

  Just roll with it. What difference does it make anymore?

  Indeed. His wife was dead. And he had killed a man. A life on the run was his only viable future. This detour to Wayne’s residence was merely a temporary stop on his journey, which offered perhaps the opportunity to do some good.

  He settled on a sofa cushion across from the soldier. Out of habit, he checked his iPhone, and immediately regretted it: the screensaver was a recent photo of him and Melissa on vacation in Florida, wrapped in each other’s arms while the surf broke on the beach around them, grinning as if they would be young and in love forever.

  Exhaling, he put the phone away.

  Across the room, the door swung open. Wayne stepped through the doorway.

  He had changed into black scrubs, and he wore a surgical mask that covered his mouth and nose. He had taken off the cowboy hat and slid on a protective cap. He wore gloves, too.

  “Let’s bring him back here,” he said, voice muffled.

  “Do I need to wear some kind of protection, too?” Alex asked.

  “Not yet. Let’s move him.”

  “What’s back there?” Alex rose.

  “You’ll see for yourself when we get him situated. Come on, now.”

  Wayne hooked his hands in the soldier’s armpits, and Alex grabbed him by the ankles. Together, they carried the man into a darkened corridor with three more doors branching off from it; a door at the end of the hall hung open, yellowish light spilling from within.

  Alex thought he heard a groan issue from the room beyond, followed by a stream of delirious sounding giggles.

  “What is that?” Alex asked.

  “Keep moving,” Wayne said. “Head right on back into that room at the end.”

  Gooseflesh had pimpled Alex’s arms. But he maintained his hold on the soldier and edged ahead.

  When they crossed the threshold, Alex blinked in surprise. It was a narrow room, light streaming from a naked bulb overhead. A table stood in the corner, lined with vials and other metallic medical instruments.

  Several wire crates were arranged against the wall, of varying sizes. Three of them were spacious enough to contain large animals.

  One of them already held a young woman.

  She wore a t-shirt and grey sweatpants. She was barefoot. Like the other people Alex had seen displaying violent, bizarre behavior, redness outlined her swollen eyes, and lesions spotted her pale arms.

  Wayne’s daughter?

  The woman mashed her face against the cage and snapped her teeth at them. Spittle sprayed from her lips.

  “Come to me pretties . . .” she said, in a voice edged with madness. She tried to thrust her hand between the cage grates, but the openings were too small. She wriggled her fingers at them in a come-hither gesture. “Me pretties.”

  “Don’t pay her no mind,” Wayne said tightly. “She’s just sick. Let’s get this boy in the other crate there.”

  The cage door already hung open, and was barely wide enough for them to squeeze through the soldier. Clay cursed them.

  Once they had pushed him in, Wayne said, “Latch the door.”

  Alex bent to secure the cage door. As he snapped the lock into place, he felt a sting at the back of his neck. He swung around.

  Wayne held some sort of syringe gun. He backed away from Alex.

  “Sorry, hombre,” he said. “But I gotta run some tests on you.”

  Alex reached for his holstered pistol, but it felt as though he were moving while submerged underwater. What had Wayne given him? He couldn’t get his hands to cooperate with what he wanted them to do.

  His legs weakening, he slumped to the floor.

  Wayne took his Beretta as easily as one plucking a toy from the possession of an infant.

  “It’s for a good cause,” Wayne said.

  Unable to resist, Alex could only scream weakly as Wayne dragged him into the last empty cage.

  Chapter 16

  Thunderclouds darkened the sky, plunging the early afternoon into a state of gloom. Lightning danced on the horizon. An unseasonably cold wind shook the trees.

  Deacon squinted at the fermenting sky as he climbed out of the SUV. The approaching storm worried him. A severe storm could knock out electricity. Although South Haven Security HQ had a back-up generator, he was unsure about the alternative power capabilities of the other community buildings. Under ordinary circumstances he would’ve taken such a development in stride, but they needed every advantage in their column at this point in the game.

  Add it to the expanding tally of items that he needed to worry about.

  Their five-vehicle caravan had drawn to a stop in the large parking lot outside the clubhouse: Deacon’s SUV, the three CDC vans (the ladies from the clinic rode with the science team), and a Roswell police cruiser that brought up the rear. The cop had initially escorted the CDC into South Haven, and he demanded to come with them. Deacon agreed because they needed the extra support in case something went south, but he prayed the cop didn’t try to take charge and force Deacon to play his executive orders card via Mr. Falcon.

  Sitting atop a slight rise, the clubhouse was designed in the style of an 18th century English manor. The exterior was a blend of stacked stone, brick, and stucco, and the entire facility offered almost fifty thousand square feet of space: it included a ballroom, two private dining rooms, a board room, meeting rooms, a restaurant, and a bar. It was, from Deacon’s understanding, a popular venue for weddings and other large-scale events, and also served as the headquarters for the community’s members-only golf club.

  “My daughter wanted to have her reception here,” Jim said, coming beside Deacon. He spat on the ground. “We couldn’t afford the place.”

  “Don’t you get an employee discount?” Deacon asked.

  “This was before I worked here, but when I got hired on, I looked into it. Turns out no one gets a discount on the venue, not even employees. Greedy bastard.”

  Deacon swept his gaze around the parking lot, which had a scattering of vehicles parked in the staff slots. “I’m trying to figure out why no one answered the phone when I called on the way over here. Looks like some employees are on site.”

  “They could be like the others.” Jim’s gaze narrowed, and he clutched his shotgun. “The frenzied.”

  The Roswell cop approached them. He was tall, lanky, red-haired, and, to Deacon, hopelessly young, maybe twenty-four at the oldest. At that age, all he could offer Deacon was a pain in the ass. He had avoided interacting with the cop while back at the medical clinic but he couldn’t ignore him any longer.

  “Logan McBride,” the cop said. “Officer, Logan McBride. You gentlemen are just private security, huh?”

  Jim’s face reddened.

  “Both of us are former cops,” Deacon said. “We’ve over fifty years’ experience between the two of us.”

  “Old timers,” McBride said, with an exaggerated roll of his green eyes. He cleared his throat. “But I’m sorry to inform you: you’re not cops anymore. Far from it. The Roswell Police Department is assisting the CDC in this investigation.”

  “We’re not going to argue about jurisdiction,” Jim said. “Hell, kid, I’ve got shoes older than you.”

  “You can make jokes about my age but the joke is on you, old timer. The police department is in charge here. Stand down.”

  “What’s the hold up, gentlemen?” Dr. Bailey asked, breaking into their circle.

  Deacon and the other two men looked at the doctor, and their red-faced embarrassment matched his own. He felt as if he were a member of a group of misbehaving youth that had bee
n called out by the teacher.

  “Just a friendly little pissing contest, ma’am,” Deacon said.

  Bailey’s lips puckered as if she’d sipped sour milk.

  “I need to get my team set up in this clubhouse, stat,” she said. “Can we go in, please?”

  “Let the three of us check it out, first,” Deacon said. He added: “Just as a precaution.”

  “I appreciate that, but I have to insist on accompanying you,” Bailey said. “One of my top priorities for this case is to gather information. I need to see everything you see.”

  She held his gaze as she spoke, and he knew she wouldn’t back down. The lady had spunk. He couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “So that’s how it’s going to be then,” he said. “Well, all right.”

  “I’m going, too,” Emily said. She shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound, right?”

  Deacon led the group to the front entrance. There was a handwritten sign taped to the interior of the glass double doors:

  Closed Until Further Notice!

  He pulled the door handles. Locked.

  “Does someone have a key?” Bailey asked.

  “One step ahead of you.” Deacon unhooked the hoop of keys from his duty belt. “We’ve got keys to all of the community amenities.”

  He located the key labeled “Clubhouse – Front” and was about to insert it in the lock when he noticed something going on inside the building. He put his face to the glass pane.

  “What is it?” Jim asked.

  “I thought I saw someone going into the ballroom,”Deacon said.

  “Is that music playing?” Emily asked. She had placed her ear to the glass. “It sounds like a piano.”

  “If they’re inside listening to music, I’d say we’re in the clear,” Officer McBride said. “Let’s get on in there.”

  Deacon’s lips tightened. He didn’t share the cop’s confidence. Nevertheless, he unlocked the doors.

  He led the group inside.

  ***

  The interior of the clubhouse was lavishly appointed. Mahogany paneling. Crystal chandeliers. Silk wall coverings. Ornate, hand-made Persian carpets blanketed large swaths of the marble floors.