Frenzied - A Suspense Thriller

by Brandon Massey

  “Be yourself.” Caleb gazed at him, blue eyes shining. “Wow, do you have kids?”

  “No, I don’t. Why?”

  “You should. I think you’d make a great dad.”

  “I’ve got two ex-wives who might disagree with you about that—but that’s another story,” Deacon said. “Are we square, Caleb? Jim and I really need to get back to work here.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” Caleb grabbed a Post-It note and scribbled on it with a pen. He passed the slip of paper to Deacon. “These are the administrator credentials. I set up the surveillance server, actually.”

  “Doesn’t that just figure?” Jim muttered.

  “Thank you,” Deacon said. “This will help us a lot. We need to get to the bottom of who’s behind what’s hurting all the people who live here.”

  “Oh, that’s easy, too,” Caleb said. “Uncle Kent.”

  “Who the hell is Uncle Kent?” Jim asked.

  Caleb shrugged. “My dad’s younger brother. He and my dad basically hate each other’s guts, even though they’re both like old guys now. They’ve got a seriously epic sibling rivalry that’s been going on since they were kids.”

  “You’re sure he’s involved?” Deacon asked.

  “I’d bet all my computers that he is,” Caleb said. “Uncle Kent lives here, too—in South Haven, I mean. But he’s out in the forest part, with the nature trails and all that stuff. He doesn’t like to be around other people.”

  “Appreciate the tip,” Deacon said. “We’ll look into that.”

  ***

  Back in Falcon’s office, Deacon entered the login credentials that Caleb had given them.

  “And we’re in,” Deacon said. Smiling, he glanced at Jim. “See, Jim. Try a little tenderness, like Otis Redding says.”

  “I’ll admit it, I don’t understand kids these days,” Jim said. He sat on the edge of Falcon’s desk. “Especially filthy rich ones who get Teslas for their sixteenth birthdays. I couldn’t even afford to test drive one of those cars.”

  Deacon used the keyboard to scroll through the system menu. The surveillance server indicated that it had access to ninety-three cameras, many more than the HQ system could utilize. Deacon didn’t understand why Falcon needed more cameras than his own security team employed.

  As Deacon scrolled through the list of cameras, and selected them for viewing, a live full-color feed from each respective device popped up on one of the flat-screen monitors arrayed along the wall.

  Some of the additional cameras were located on Falcon’s private property—at his entrance gate, for instance. Another was nested in the upper corner of a chamber that served as the mansion’s spa.

  Deacon remembered, a few months ago, when Angie Falcon had lured him to the spa under the pretense of repairing the light fixtures. She had offered herself to him and he had resisted. Had Falcon been in his office the whole time watching the episode play out?

  Two cameras in the system menu were tagged with the labels, “Deacon Apt. 1” and “Deacon Apt. 2.” Frowning, Deacon selected each of them and looked up at the displays.

  “Holy shit,” Deacon said. “This guy has surveillance in my apartment.”

  “Surprised?” Jim asked. He looked ready to spit on the floor. “I keep telling you that he’s an asshole. The jerk probably justifies it as ‘protecting his investment.’”

  One camera gave a view of the kitchen. The other camera watched the family room. The kitchen was empty, but the live feed of the family room showed his father awake, lounging in his recliner and watching TV.

  Deacon’s gut clenched. He hadn’t any clue that surveillance had been installed in the apartment, and wondered how he’d been deceived.

  He decided right then: If they managed to survive this ordeal, he was quitting this job, labor contract be damned. Falcon could sue him if he wanted. No job was worth this outrageous invasion of privacy.

  Deacon returned to the menu. He found familiar labels for the surveillance positioned around Main Street, which bracketed the town square. He selected all four of them, and then drilled deeper, to footage history.

  The footage was categorized by day, with each covering a full twenty-four hour period, and was further broken down into hour by hour segments. Deacon selected Friday, July 8—one week ago. The day of the “Screen on the Green” event during which they believed residents had come into contact with the deadly tick larvae. He started at five o’clock in the afternoon for the fateful day.

  The selected cameras provided excellent coverage of the town square, from all four directions. At five o’clock, the four food trucks were parked along Main Street, and were already serving a trickle of customers. Some residents had set up lawn chairs and blankets on the grass, staking their claims well before the movie commenced.

  “If these damn bugs were crawling in the grass looking for hosts, by this point in the day, they’re already there,” Jim said. “We need to find out who put them there. It must have been earlier that day, or maybe the day before.”

  “Agreed.” Deacon scratched his chin. “This is going to take some time to dig through.”

  Chapter 24

  Alex worried that they were going too far.

  First, their group, led by Stan, had raided the South Haven Security headquarters. They had restrained one of the guards and looted all of the weapons, vests, and other valuables, and disabled the surveillance system. Alex had not participated in the raid, but he had been privy to the plan, and that made him an accessory. He’d understood the need to acquire weapons for self-defense, and the desire to prevent spying on the residents made sense, but none of it felt right, in spite of Stan’s warnings that they stood on the precipice of martial law backed by the United States government.

  To Alex, it was stealing, plain and simple.

  He’d gone from a life steeped in crime in the cartel, to respectability as an entrepreneur, and had circled back to felonious deeds. Perhaps it was just in his nature to skirt the line.

  Eres un chico malo, his mama had used to say to him. Mama had been perpetually disappointed by his choices, and had written him off for good when he’d joined the cartel.

  The task he was about to undertake wouldn’t have influenced his mother to think any better of him. Stan wanted Alex to infiltrate the CDC’s base of operations at the South Haven clubhouse. Get inside, find out what the agency knew and what they were planning next, and report back to the group.

  Which was how Alex wound up in the clubhouse parking lot that evening, making his way toward the facility. He had ridden a bicycle to get there, one that Stan had loaned him for this task. Although on the way there, Alex had passed several sick individuals and had even spotted from afar what appeared to be a mob of them, traveling like a herd of animals down the road, none of them displayed any interest in harming him.

  Stan had a mission for him, but Alex had his own reasons for wanting to speak to doctors and scientists about what was happening—not only to the community, but to him.

  Several utility vans bearing the CDC logo were parked near the building; a satellite dish bristled from the roof of one of the vehicles. Lights glowed at the clubhouse windows.

  It was ironic. Before he’d made his escape and had started over, Alex had used to be an informant against the cartel, secretly feeding tips to the United States government. He supposed he knew all about serving multiple masters.

  He approached the clubhouse’s ornate entrance. He had expected a guard to be on duty at the doors, but there was no one there. Through the glass, he could see people hurrying back and forth, as if they were absorbed in their work.

  Alex tried to go inside, but the entrance was locked.

  He hammered his fist against the glass. “Hey! Can someone come help me?”

  No one responded at first, but a couple of people did glance in his direction. He supposed he was quite a spectacle, with his rain-damp clothes and dust mask covering half his face.

  He pulled away his dust mask and continued to
beat on the doors.

  After about a minute, a pretty young woman approached. She wore blue hospital scrubs, and her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She looked familiar to him, and he guessed she was likely a community resident who had visited his store in the past. But if she lived in South Haven, how had she wound up helping the CDC?

  She stopped at the doors but didn’t open them.

  “This is a restricted area,” she said, her gaze unyielding. “The CDC is hard at work. They’ve asked everyone to stay in their homes until further notice. Did you get that message?”

  “I need help,” Alex said. “I’m not going to hurt anyone, but I don’t feel right. Can you please help?”

  “Please. Return to your home.”

  “I can’t go back home, miss. My wife’s there . . . she was sick.” Emotion tightened his throat. “I only want someone to help me.”

  The woman’s eyes softened. She hesitated for a beat, and then twisted a knob to unlock the door.

  ***

  “Thank you,” Alex said. “I won’t get in anyone’s way, I promise.”

  “Just stick with me, okay?” She looked around, lips pressed together. “All right, I can probably take you to one of the meeting rooms and do a quick exam.”

  He noticed that she didn’t ask for him to relinquish his pistol, which he still wore holstered on his hip, though his jacket concealed the weapon. She wore what looked like a stun gun clipped to her waist. He didn’t know why, but that gave him confidence that she understood what was going on.

  “My name’s Alex,” he said. “I run the frozen yogurt shop on Main Street. I think I’ve seen you before.”

  “Emily,” she said. “I thought I recognized you, too. I liked your shop.”

  Alex noted she said liked, as if the existence of his business had passed into ancient history. He wondered how much she knew about what was happening.

  “How are you helping the CDC?” he asked. “Do you work for them?”

  “Officially? No. It’s a long story.” She gestured for him to follow her. She walked with a slight limp. When he inquired about it, she revealed that she had sprained her ankle and recently wrapped it with a bandage. Probably had been running for her life, he thought.

  They traveled through the lobby and down a wide corridor. As they walked, they passed a ballroom, the doors closed. Piano chords filtered from inside. It sounded as if a boisterous child were banging away on the keys.

  “What’s going on in there?” Alex asked, hooking his thumb toward the ballroom.

  “Don’t ask,” Emily said.

  They went past several uniformed members of the CDC; Alex saw the agency’s initials on the badges they wore around their necks. He expected someone to stop them and question his presence, but they all appeared too busy to mind. Their gazes were intense, faces lined with stress. The place had an atmosphere of quiet desperation.

  Emily opened a door off the main corridor and ushered him into a small conference room. She switched on the lights. The room was furnished with a round table and six padded chairs.

  “Are you a doctor?” Alex asked.

  “I’m starting my third year of medical school,” she said with a shrug. “Take a seat, please. So you said your wife is sick?”

  “She’s dead,” Alex said, and the words felt like stones in his mouth. “May her soul rest in peace. She went pure loco, like so many other people here.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, and she sounded so sincere that Alex had to stifle a sob. “But Dr. Bailey and the CDC have discovered the cause.”

  “It’s some government virus thing right? A biological weapon?”

  “Umm, no.” Emily frowned at him as if he had lost his mind. “Anyway, I don’t know how much of this I’m supposed to share, but you’re in here now, so I’ll tell you. It’s a parasite. A rare species of tick from Peru. It was in the town square a week or so ago, when we had the Screen on the Green event. The tick is so tiny you can barely see it, but they get into your nose.” She touched one of her nostrils. “They release a neurotoxin that causes people to behave the way we’ve been seeing.”

  “Right,” Alex said. It was an inadequate reply, but he didn’t know what else to say. Stan’s theory about a government-produced super virus had been almost laughably wrong—and called into question this entire covert “mission” that Alex had undertaken. “How did something from Peru get here?”

  “That’s what some of us are trying to find out,” she said.

  “Is there a cure?” he asked. “There’s gotta be a treatment, right?”

  Emily shook her head. “Quarantine is going into effect soon. I haven’t heard anyone say this, but as far as the people who are already sick, I think they’re going to let it run its course. Maybe they’ll treat the entire community grounds with pesticides to try to kill any eggs and larvae that are still left over. I don’t know exactly. But it’s basically too risky for them to let anyone leave—you could be carrying larvae on your clothes. Imagine if this spread out beyond South Haven. Some of it probably has already since people from outside the community came to the movie event.”

  “That’s a scary thought,” Alex said.

  “I know. But getting back to the exam I meant to do. If you can tilt your head back for a few seconds, I can have a look in your nostrils and let you know if you’re currently a host or not.”

  Alex allowed her to check him out with a small penlight. She pronounced him parasite-free.

  “What about a blood test?” Alex asked. “Can you do that, too?”

  “That was my next step,” she said. “I’ll need to get a kit. Hang tight, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  She left him alone in the room. Alex absently scratched his forearm. His mind reeled from what he’d learned so far.

  His cell phone vibrated. He had a text message from the same phone number that earlier, had notified him of the meeting at the bookstore. Stan.

  It read simply: Update?

  Alex hesitated. If he shared his findings with Stan, he doubted the guy would believe him. The man was zealously convinced of his own theories and would claim that Alex had been turned by the government. Alex saw little point in returning to the group. With quarantine coming (which Stan had correctly predicted), the only sensible course for those healthy individuals left in South Haven was to find somewhere safe, and hunker down until the danger passed.

  Alex didn’t want to ignore him, so he replied: Its not what u think.

  Stan shot back: National Guard mobilizing outside gates. Expect to lose power and wireless soon. Come back to base or you’re on your own.

  Emily opened the door. Alex quickly put away his phone.

  “Change of plans,” Emily said. “Come with me.”

  ***

  “I think I’ve got something, chief,” Jim said.

  After Deacon had spent half an hour digging through the feeds, he and Jim had switched places at the surveillance system terminal, in the hopes that a fresh set of eyes would yield results. Meanwhile, Deacon had been looking through the photographs on the desk, and on the walls of the expansive office, seeking family photos, and even more specifically, a photo of someone who might match Caleb’s description of “Uncle Kent.”

  He had found only one that might prove relevant. An old black-and-white picture of three men: the eldest man—the father apparently—sat at a big desk, flanked by two young men, one at each shoulder. Deacon recognized the tall, broad-shouldered Ronald Falcon as one of the brothers; the other son was shorter and wore bifocals, and he had an intensely studious look.

  Jim’s announcement pulled Deacon away from the family snapshot.

  “Sixth of July,” Jim said, gesturing toward the four live monitors on the wall. “Ten minutes past two o’clock in the morning. Who the hell is this guy?”

  The video footage had a greenish tint due to the infrared technology used to render the nighttime footage. But in the display that pulled data from the east-facing su
rveillance camera, Deacon clearly saw an individual enter the town square. His face wasn’t visible, but he wore dark clothing, and he carried a briefcase.

  “Someone working late?” Deacon asked.

  “Don’t think so,” Jim said. “He’s wearing an overcoat that comes down to his knees in freakin’ July? It’s been hot and humid all month.”

  “Good point. Can we zoom in and get a closer look at his face?”

  “Let’s see if one of the other cameras gives us a better angle,” Jim said, and tapped the keyboard.

  Jim paused the feed and zoomed in with the westward-facing camera, which offered a better frontal view of the stranger. The stranger crossed the street.

  Deacon’s gut clenched. “What’s wrong with his face?”

  Squinting at the screen, Jim laughed. “Oh, that evil fucker.”

  Staring at the display, Deacon could make out a pale face, wide sly smile, a mustache and a comma of a beard in the middle of the chin. “It’s a mask?”

  “Oh, yeah. Not just any mask, either. A Guy Fawkes mask.”

  “Anarchy,” Deacon said. “Cute.”

  Jim advanced the feed. The masked man proceeded to a bench at the edge of the town square, opened his briefcase, and removed a cylindrical object. He twisted the cap off the canister and began to methodically walk through the grass, spreading the contents of the cylinder around him, like a man fertilizing his lawn.

  “A deliberate infestation, like I thought,” Deacon said. “Wonder how many eggs he distributed.”

  “Thousands?” Jim said. “I read up a little on ticks. Maybe ten percent of the eggs will hatch into healthy larvae. For us to see the several hundred people infected that we’ve seen, he must have dropped thousands and thousands of eggs.”

  “And two days later, they had hatched into larvae seeking hosts, just in time for the community event,” Deacon said.

  “Bioterrorism,” Jim said. “Punishable by multiple life sentences in a federal prison.”