Frenzied - A Suspense Thriller

by Brandon Massey

  Hannah suspected where the security guard commander was headed with this line of reasoning, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  “Let’s get more information before we jump to conclusions,” she said. “We’ve yet to even determine exactly which species of tick is at work here.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, and he thankfully left his thoughts unspoken.

  Nevertheless, Hannah had known exactly what he’d wanted to say.

  Someone had introduced this dangerous creature to South Haven on purpose.

  ***

  Deacon couldn’t remember the last time he had been so eager to work. Although it was past seven o’clock in the evening, putting his shift at over twelve hours for that day, and he should have been thoroughly exhausted, he was as charged as if he’d taken a double dose of amphetamines.

  They’d finally had a real break in their case. Dr. Bailey’s hunch had proved correct. While she worked with her team on identifying the exact classification of the arachnid, Deacon was going to figure out how the hell it had gotten there in the first place.

  He didn’t merely suspect malicious intent behind the arrival of the tick. He was convinced of it. This was a crime, and dealing with crime was a particular talent of his that had lain dormant for much too long.

  After the meeting had broken up, he approached Jim. His partner continued to sit on a chair in the corner, looking miserable.

  “You ready to roll?” he asked Jim. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “You aren’t scared of me?” Jim dabbed at his nose with the towel.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Jim scowled. “That goddamn bug was stuck in my nose. What if I’m sick?”

  “Do you feel sick?” Deacon asked.

  “No, but some creature hibernating in my nose, sucking my blood . . . it had to have done something to me.” Jim shook his head, his eyes haunted. “I don’t trust myself anymore.”

  “If you start to act like a whacko, I’ll slap some cuffs on you and throw you in the holding pen at HQ. I only ask that you don’t strip down to your birthday suit. I don’t think I could survive the sight of that.”

  “Right.” A smile creased Jim’s lips. “No way in hell you’ll see that, chief.”

  “Get your ass in gear then. We’ve got a job to do.”

  “Roger that.” Nodding grimly, Jim rose. “Lead the way.”

  “My man.” Deacon clapped Jim on the shoulder. Before leaving, they approached Dr. Bailey, who was deep in discussion with members of her team.

  Bailey was alarmed at their leaving, but agreed with the importance of their task. She herself was dispatching two of her team members to the town square, to gather additional specimens of the tick larvae, and Deacon convinced her to hold off sending them out until he got another of his security staff to provide protection.

  He left Bailey with a walkie-talkie that she could use to reach them in the event of an emergency. As he passed the device to her, their fingers touched. Deacon felt a spark akin to a gentle ripple of electricity.

  Was there a glimmer of attraction in her gaze, too? A lingering look just a beat too long to be merely professional courtesy?

  Regardless, it was definitely not the time for a love connection. Maybe later. If nothing else, the possibility gave him something to look forward to, a hope for the future.

  As he and Jim headed for the doors, Emily caught up to them.

  “Can I come with you?” she asked.

  There was an urgency in her gaze that threw Deacon for a loop.

  “Is this about your boyfriend?” he asked.

  “I got a text message from him. He wants me to meet him at the pool.”

  “Isn’t the pool closed?” Jim said. “Why’s he asking you to meet him there?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “I’m not totally comfortable about it, but I need to talk to him, if I can.”

  “I promised you earlier that I’d help out,” Deacon said. “We’re heading to HQ. The water park is on the way. Come on.”

  ***

  The South Haven aquatic facility was called Poseidon Park. It featured a towering, twisting, outdoor water slide that rivaled a commercial attraction, a large splash pad area full of colorful, nautically-themed fountains, play and leisure pools of various depths, and an indoor Olympic swimming pool.

  During hours of normal operation, the outdoor lighting would have been activated, but when they arrived, every lamp was dark. As Deacon parked in front of the facility, he noticed a handful of people floating in the water in the leisure pool, their bodies shrouded in gloom.

  He unfolded the South Haven map he’d been carrying in his pocket and circled the aquatic center, identifying it as another danger zone.

  “The park’s closed,” Deacon said. “But it definitely isn’t empty.”

  “Zack was on the swim team in high school,” Emily said. “He was really good, actually, was named All-State. He likes to do laps in the pool inside.”

  “If he’s in there now,” Jim said, nodding toward the darkened building, “then he’s probably sick, sweetheart.”

  “I have to see for myself,” Emily said.

  Deacon turned around in his seat and studied Emily. Her brown eyes were watery, but held a steely resolve. He would be wasting his time to try to persuade her to leave this alone.

  Girl has spunk, he thought. But spunk or not, walking alone into a virtual horde of infected folks was foolish.

  “If you’re set on doing this, then I’ll go with you.” Deacon switched off the engine. “Jim?”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Jim said.

  Deacon and Emily climbed out of the vehicle. The drizzle had ceased, but the pavement remained wet, rivulets of water glistening in the glow of the nearby street lamps.

  An eight-foot tall, chain-link fence encircled the entire property. As he and Emily moved toward the main entrance, Deacon saw someone crawl out of the wading pool, and from the distance it looked like a sea lion, but it was only a man. Morbidly obese, and completely naked, he waddled toward them on all fours, pressed his pockmarked face against the fence, and squinted at them with his inflamed eyes.

  “Not allowed kids . . . not allowed . . .” he muttered in a gravelly tone.

  Deacon had no clue what the man was talking about and suspected he probably didn’t either. He looked away.

  The glass double doors of the entrance were unlocked. Deacon drew his Glock, and gave Emily his flashlight.

  They went inside.

  ***

  Emily knew this wasn’t going to end well. She knew that Zack was almost certainly sick, and that they might never find a cure for this condition that plagued so many of the residents. But she had to see this through.

  None of the lights were on inside Poseidon Park. As she and Deacon stepped into the darkened lobby, she swept the flashlight beam back and forth.

  She had been inside the facility many times, probably once a week, with Zack, who came there several times a week to put in his laps. She was a good swimmer, too. The familiar odor of chlorinated water, wafting on the air in the lobby, comforted her.

  “This way,” she said to Deacon, who kept pace close behind her.

  The pool area was to the right of the lobby, past the entrance to the locker rooms. Floor to ceiling windows provided a view of the enormous swimming pool.

  She shone the flashlight through the glass. She saw flashes of movement beyond the window: there were several people inside.

  Her heart knocked. If all of these people were sick, would they attack? Or were they the merely obsessive ones, there to wade in the water?

  “He’s going to be in there,” Emily said.

  “I’m ready,” Deacon said. “Let’s turn on the lights when we get in there so we can see what’s going on.”

  Emily pulled open the glass door. A blast of warm, chlorine-scented air rushed out. She stepped inside, her shoes squeaking on the wet tile floor.
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br />   To the right of the doorway, she located the bank of light switches. She flipped on one of them; pale light flickered into life.

  Some of the people groaned, as if she had interrupted a sleepover. But they continued on with their activities, such as they were: floating in the shallow end, wading aimlessly, diving artlessly at the deep end of the pool.

  It’s like a zombie pool party, she thought.

  Then she spotted Zack. He was in one of the roped-off swim lanes. He was performing a breaststroke, slicing through the water like a great, swift fish. He wore his favorite neon-blue swim goggles, and his hair was tucked underneath a black silicone swim cap.

  “Zack,” she said, and waved.

  He continued to stroke through the water and showed no indication that he had heard her. Carefully, she navigated her way around the edge of the pool, Deacon at her heels.

  “Folks aren’t paying us much mind,” Deacon said in a low voice edged with caution. “At the moment. We’ll hope that holds.”

  Emily barely heard what he was saying. She didn’t want to believe that Zack was sick. He was only swimming laps, right, like he often did each day. Why did that have to mean he was infected?

  She reached his lane. She saw his cell phone on the floor, lying in a puddle of water. She picked it up. The screen was locked, but the display was full of text messages and notifications of unanswered calls, from her phone, and others, probably his parents.

  Had Zack sent his message to her just before he had entirely lost his ability to function logically?

  He was at the other end of the pool, cutting through the water with ease. How long had he been doing laps? Hours?

  He reached the opposite end of the pool and flipped around, as if he were competing in a meet. Rapidly, he swam toward her.

  “Zack!” she shouted. She waved her arms. “Please, Zack, I’ve got to talk to you!”

  Zack drew near, bobbing up and down in the water, and as he did, she saw the lesions on his long, muscular arms, the reddened sores on his forehead under the edge of his swim cap. Her heart twisted, and she had to bite down on her knuckle to keep herself from screaming.

  Zack swam to the lip of the pool. She noticed he still wore the silver necklace she had given him last Christmas. A matching silver locket was attached to the chain, the heart-shaped pendant containing a snapshot of the two of them in an old-fashioned shopping mall photo booth.

  “It’s me, Zack, Emily,” she said. “I’ve got something important to tell you, please listen to me.”

  He paused, hands on the rim of the pool, goggles still in place. She needed to see his eyes, those beloved green eyes. She needed to see if he comprehended what she was telling him.

  Kneeling, she reached forward to lift away his goggles.

  “Hey,” Deacon. “Don’t do that!”

  Snarling, Zack seized her by the wrist.

  Emily screamed. “Zack, no!”

  Zack yanked her toward him with savage force. She lost her balance and catapulted into the swimming pool.

  Water rushed into her nostrils and poured down her throat. She gagged.

  Zack wrapped his arm around her neck, in a virtual headlock. He paddled forward, legs kicking furiously.

  She batted her hands against him. She couldn’t get to the surface to get air.

  He was her boyfriend, the father of her unborn child, and he was going to drown her before she could even share the news with him.

  As if from a great distance, she heard a thunderous, muffled boom, and thought: someone’s shooting.

  And the water around her suddenly turned red.

  ***

  Deacon didn’t want to shoot the kid, but he didn’t have any choice.

  The boyfriend, Zack, dragged Emily under, and Deacon didn’t know exactly what the kid intended, but he was drowning the girl. She was fighting to get away, to get up for air, and he just kept her head underwater while he swam away, like a shark departing with its prey between its teeth.

  Deacon went for the headshot, and it was tough to get a good look because the guy kept bobbing up and down in the water. The first round he fired missed, causing a tremendous splash, water raining over Deacon.

  The second round plowed squarely into the back of the guy’s head. Petals of blood bloomed from the ruptured skull, and the kid’s limbs went limp. Emily broke the surface of the water. She saw her dead boyfriend and let out a garbled scream that speared Deacon’s heart.

  I had no choice, he thought. You’ve gotta believe that.

  The other frenzied in the pool area, a dozen or so of them, had stopped their obsessive behavior and taken notice of the struggle. Intense gazes shifted from the dead boy, to Deacon, to Emily, to the dead boy, back to Deacon.

  Deacon got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Their muttered words washed over him.

  “. . . killed him . . . him shot . . .”

  “. . . execution . . .”

  “. . . cop dirty . . . “

  “. . . get him . . .”

  In the pool, Emily cradled her boyfriend to her, a pinkish mixture of water and blood swirling around them. She was whispering to him. She had removed his swim goggles and was gently stroking his face.

  “Emily!” Deacon shouted. “We’ve gotta get the hell out of here now!”

  Weeping, she continued to whisper to her boyfriend. Deacon backed away from the swimming pool.

  Moving almost as one, the frenzied began to clamber out of the water. All of them were naked. Deacon felt, bizarrely, as if he had stumbled into a nudists’ pool party.

  “Emily!” he said. “I am leaving!”

  Finally, the girl snapped out of her fog and let go of her boyfriend. He floated away on a raft of blood, face tilted to the ceiling. She swam to the edge of the pool and pulled herself out of the water, her clothes dripping. Her face was reddened, eyes full of tears. A silver necklace dangled from her clenched fist.

  By then, Deacon had retreated to the doorway. The frenzied gathered into a pack, as if drawn together by a single hive mind, people of various ages, all of them dripping wet, bare bodies mapped with sores, eyes crusted over but simmering with rage.

  “. . . get him . . .”

  “. . . pig . . .”

  “. . . execute . . .”

  Emily ran to him, nearly slipped on a patch of water, and regained her balance in time to avoid a fall. She skirted the edge of the gathering mob, but they ignored her.

  “I’m sorry,” Deacon said. He didn’t know what else to say.

  She wiped damp hair out of her eyes. “Let’s . . . let’s just get out of here, okay?”

  The mob roared, and charged after them.

  Deacon led the way into the lobby. It was dimly lit from light spilling out from the indoor pool area.

  But Deacon heard something. Someone was coming around the corner. He heard the quick patter of wet feet against tile, and saw a mass of shambling shadows on the corridor wall.

  More of them, Deacon thought.

  He hustled to the entrance, Emily close behind. Gun drawn, he whammed open the doors with his shoulder.

  It was raining again, a violent downpour, as if gashes had been slashed in the sky.

  Deacon flung water out of his eyes with his sleeve and yanked down his cap, rain dripping off the bill. He could barely see five feet ahead of him, but he could make out the hulking shape of the SUV, still parked at the curb, and that was all that mattered.

  Behind them, the frenzied were bursting out of the facility’s doors.

  The people who, earlier, had been in the outdoor water play area had vanished. Deacon wondered if they had joined the growing mob of the infected, all of them unified in their intent to kill him.

  Deacon and Emily raced to the vehicle, wings of water splashing from their feet.

  Jim, God bless him, saw them coming and propped open the front passenger side door. He was hunched behind the wheel, wisps of smoke curling from the exhaust as the engine idled.

 
Deacon lifted Emily with one arm and swung her around into the passenger seat. He climbed in after her.

  “Go!” Deacon said

  But Jim had already hit the gas.

  The Ford lurched forward, the sudden momentum causing the passenger door to swing shut and clip Deacon’s foot as he dragged it inside. He barely felt the pain, his attention riveted on their pursuers.

  The mob had gotten bigger, and it was coming.

  Chapter 22

  The bogeyman finally had a name.

  “Ixodes insanus,” the entomologist announced to Hannah and their team. His name was Dr. William McKee. When Hannah had sent out scanned, magnified images of the tick to the CDC’s worldwide e-mail distribution list of specialists, McKee was the first and only one who had responded with a definitive answer. She promptly scheduled an emergency video conference call over an encrypted connection.

  A tanned, bald-headed man in his seventies, Dr. McKee’s profile filled the large flat screen TV in the clubhouse meeting room. The background behind the doctor was a brownish desert landscape that looked like a snapshot from a postcard; he was calling from his home in Mesa, Arizona.

  “Or, in layman’s language: the Peruvian Frenzy Tick,” Dr. McKee said.

  Hannah glanced at her team members who had gathered around the display. None of their faces registered any recognition of what the doctor had told them.

  “We’re not familiar with it,” she said. “How common is this?”

  Dr. McKee chuckled. “Not common at all, I’m afraid. To the best of my knowledge—and I would know better than anyone else in the world—ixodes insanus has never been found outside of its natural habitat. Its habitat, such as it is, amounts to only a thirty-four mile region of largely uncharted Amazon rainforest in southeastern Peru.”

  Hannah’s mind reeled. Some exotic tick from the jungle had found its way to Atlanta, of all places. Deacon’s theory of a deliberate infestation was sounding awfully plausible.

  “But it’s here now,” Hannah said. “In metro Atlanta. We’re developing our own theories, but I’d like to hear yours. Any feasible explanation of how it could have gotten here?”