The Tilian Virus (The Pandemic Sequence Book 1)

by Tom Calen

  “Fall back to the kitchen!”

  Hearing Mike’s command, the men and women turned with surprise to see him standing with the gasoline container, its redness now glowing from the flashlights trained on it. Doubt passed through their eyes, followed by the inevitable sadness of comprehension. His own glare silenced all objections and without argument, they set their jaws and followed his order.

  Once cleared, he began to splash walls, floors, and furniture in the front rooms. The angry snarls of the infected grew more persistent as he walked before them. Arms reached out for him from the window openings, but his mind refused to acknowledge their presence. From the kitchen, someone shouted that the vehicles had made their return. Passing within inches of the snapping teeth of a Til, Mike turned to exit the room. His hand dug into his pocket and withdrew a battered match book. With a swift strike, Mike let the match fall to the ground, and a soft orange-red glow flickered along the wet floors as the room roared to fiery life. The macabre faces of the Tils grew even more grotesque in the light and heat of the newly born inferno.

  As the vehicles drove away, he did not take his eyes from the massive fire that engulfed the farmhouse. No Tils were seen following them. Instead, as he had hoped, the mindless infected continued to pour into the home. Two years of peace and safety had been the cost of the refugees’ escape. Even from two miles away, one could see the funeral pyre of memory and flesh raging into the early hours of dawn.

  * * *

  The days that followed were marked by fatigue, hunger, and a thick depression that enveloped everyone. As the group continued their march in search of shelter, tears flowed unchecked down the faces of even the strongest souls. In all, six had fallen during the attack on the farmhouse. Mike had only a passing familiarity with most, but it was the loss of Andrew’s mother Sarah that carved the deepest wound. He was told that she had been bitten while trying to protect her son. The boy, who had been the one to end her life, spent the last two days in silence, taking little water and no food.

  Not that there was much food to be shared. With the suddenness of the attack, there had been no time to pack supplies for an extended journey. Stomachs growled painfully as the refugees, many still clad in bedclothes, walked steadily for the mountains in the east. Their route was through abandoned farms and small towns, and many voiced their desire to resettle at a farm, but Mike feared that another such location would soon only meet the same fate. If the food supply for the Tils was running low in the more developed areas, their dispersion into the rural communities was sure to continue. No, he thought, his eyes locking on the peaks miles ahead, the mountains are all that’s left to us.

  And so they trudged on, seeking shelter in the night and marching through the daylight, their vehicles out of fuel and abandoned miles back. Mike insisted on a brisk pace, driving the refugees to their limits. He understood their weariness but he was possessed of a dogged determination to reach the mountains with all possible speed. He blamed himself for the loss of lives and shelter, and was willing to endure any hardships the road might offer in order to avert future losses. Wrapped in his solitude, he urged the others to walk further than their bodies believed they could.

  With Mike’s unrelenting persistence, the refugees soon found themselves deep within the wooded protection of the Cherokee National Forest. Even with spring still some weeks off, the forest’s evergreens stood tall and full, a welcome sign of life for the fatigued travelers. At the base of the Great Smoky Mountains, hundreds of thousands of acres reverberated with the sounds of birds and other wildlife.

  A small collection of picnic tables and fire pits filled a clearing off one of the many trails. Though so close to their destination, Mike could feel his own body rejecting any further request for movement.

  “Okay, let’s stop here for the night,” he instructed.

  As the refugees slumped to the ground, a loud rustling of branches and leaves was heard from the direction of a heavily wooded area. Exhaustion evaporated and immediately several refugees leapt up with guns at the ready. Mike signaled for a small group to begin to close in on the sound.

  From the trees emerged a young man, Mike estimating the two shared a similar age, carrying the body of a buck across his shoulders. Heedless of the weapons drawn on him, the man walked towards one of the many fire pits at the camp site. The man moved with the casual grace of one well-experienced in the outdoors. Easing the animal’s weight off his back and onto the ground, he then wiped his hands on his weathered jeans. Mike slowly lowered his gun as the man approached him with a hand extended in greeting.

  “I saw you guys coming about an hour ago and from the looks of it y’all are in need of a good meal. This area is as safe as any. They haven’t been coming into the woods, yet,” he began. Then, with a glance to men around him, “Anytime you guys want to lower those guns would be great. I could use a few hands dressing the deer.”

  As Mike shook the man’s hand in disbelief, his mouth worked to form some sort of reply, but words failed him. The man’s affable, and apparently fearless nature, was stunning to Mike’s current mood. He had spent the better part of the last seventy-two hours struggling to keep alive. Yet, here was this man, and his dead deer, strolling through the woods offering a shared meal. In the darkness of recent losses, Mike could almost feel the hope of a new beginning.

  “Oh, I’m Paul, by the way,” the man said. “Paul Jenson.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  An endless cavalcade of bullets streamed through the air, showering Mike and Lisa with glass fragments from the windshield and passenger-side windows. Hugging the wide surface of the minivan, the two waited for a lull in the attack before risking exposure by peering over the vehicle’s thick metal protection. Gazelle, though fearless of Tils, cowered next to Mike, the deafening sounds of gunfire forcing her tail and ears to slump. Several feet in front of them, the body of the man who only moments before had warned of being followed lay sprawled out on the cracked roadway. A large portion of his face was missing. Given the damage to the refugee, Mike knew whoever was attacking them was in possession of large, high-powered weapons capable of deadly force at a distance.

  The projectiles continued to rip through the air forcing Mike and Lisa to stay pinned in their current location, though he left his crouched position and pressed himself to the surface of the road. Under the confusing maze of vehicles, he was able to see several other refugees likewise sheltering themselves from the ambush. There were a handful of unmoving bodies scattered along the road as well.

  Resuming his crouch, Mike closed his eyes in an effort to focus his hearing on the direction of the shots. Even with the poor acoustics of their environment, he believed the majority of their enemies’ attack was centered ahead, with only a few gunmen hidden within the foliage along the highway’s shoulders. As for their numbers, Mike knew he would not be able to get an accurate count unless he got closer.

  Leaning closer to Lisa, he shouted over the gunfire, “We have to move up! Keep low and watch your flanks!”

  Nodding her acknowledgement, she made a quick check of her weapons and angled herself to follow Mike’s lead.

  “Stay with me, girl,” he said to the canine at his side. When she barked in reply, Mike found himself encouraged by the thought of the dog’s incredible survival over the past several years. As she continued her barking, he recognized a slight change in tone. Previously sounding her obedience, Gazelle now called out in warning. Lisa followed the direction of her stare.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered into the air.

  With a face suddenly ashen, mouth agape as muscles slackened, Lisa’s demeanor forced Mike to seek the cause. Turning to their rear, his eyes widened as he understood that their situation had transitioned from dire to hopeless.

  Behind them, and approaching with feral steadiness, a massive number of Tils slowly walked down the highway. If the refugees were unable to advance, they would soon be overtaken by the Tils at their rear flank.

  “So
close,” Lisa said, her tone marked with abject resignation, “Damn it but we got so close!

  “Lisa…LISA!!” Mike shouted at her to break the defeated trance that now gripped her. Slowly turning to him, she stared at him with pure vacancy in her eyes.

  “Lisa, listen to me. We need to advance and take out those gunners. It’s our only chance. Do you understand me? The gunners, that’s your target.”

  “Gunners,” she mumbled. Then, as if woken from a deep sleep, her eyes refocused, filling with understanding.

  “You with me?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied with her former conviction. Though relieved to see her emotions under control, Mike worried how the other refugees might react to the sight of the Tils if his head of security froze from the full awareness of their situation. Pushing the thought from his mind, Mike began a hurried crawl around the minivan. The Tils were still several dozen yards behind and not yet running. Why aren’t they running? he thought as he wove his way through the maze of vehicles.

  As man, woman, and dog rounded another car, they discovered both Erik and Dr. Marena huddled low behind the trunk of a black sedan. Just as Mike was about to speak, the gunfire, unrelenting since it began, came to a sudden and abrupt stop. Erik began to rise from behind the car, when Mike pulled him back down.

  In answer to Erik’s questioning look, Mike told him in a hushed voice, “They want us to give away our position.” In confirmation of his assessment, a refugee hidden behind a truck several feet from them jumped into view and began firing towards the attackers. The man barely got off five rounds before his chest exploded from several shots of return fire.

  “That’s a fifty,” Lisa said. Mike knew they were outgunned, but now wondered how many .50 caliber machine guns their hidden enemy possessed.

  “We need to retreat,” Marena said. His voice shook with fear. Rarely making any excursions from the mountain camp, the doctor had seen little field action and the current situation was clearly taking its toll.

  “Can’t,” Mike said. “Tils.”

  As the doctor took to mumbling in despair, Mike scanned the wooded areas bordering the highway.

  “So, what’s the plan, Chief?” Erik asked.

  “Lisa and I will swing around to their east and west flanks. You two stay low and keep moving forward and warn the others about the Tils,” Mike said, trying to fill his words with authoritative certitude.

  “How’re you gonna reach the woods? That’s at least a fifteen yard sprint in the open. You’ll be cut down before you take your third step,” Erik replied.

  “That’s where the diversion comes in,” Mike said.

  “What diversion?” asked Marena who had roused himself from his rumblings.

  If the doctor had been anxious before, his blood pressure certainly sky-rocketed when he saw the mischievous smile Mike offered in reply while staring at the doctor’s medical pack.

  * * *

  The cessation in firing was short-lived as refugees attempted to strike back, only to be met with the overwhelming force of the enemies’ weapons. Through the bursts of gunfire, Mike could see the Tils closing the distance with the refugees. Though oddly still not rushing headlong in frenzy, the infected were now crouching and slinking between vehicles as if to avoid the flight of bullets in the air.

  At the western edge of the highway, Mike hoped that Lisa had reached her eastern destination. Long seconds passed as he waited for Erik and the doctor to act. Finally, a thin stream of smoke wafted into the overcast sky. Soon other streams could be spotted, and then tongues of dancing fire grew large enough to mar the landscape with thick black smoke. Mike had doubted that any of the vehicles still had fuel, but their interiors would burn nicely, especially if doused with the doctor’s supply of rubbing alcohol. Mike hoped that the fires would also consume some of the Tils. Over a dozen cars and trucks now burned furiously, filling the distance Mike had to cover to reach the safety of the tree line with cover.

  With a breath and a prayer, he lunged forward and sprinted through the smoke. The flash of gray at his feet let him know that Gazelle raced alongside him. Mike mentally screamed at his legs to maintain their balance as they turned over wildly in his dash. The smoke shield was significantly thinner the closer he got to the woods. Several shots whizzed by his head before he reached the ground safely within the woods.

  Out of breath and fighting smoke-induced coughs, Mike allowed himself to rest for a fraction of a second. “Get up,” he commanded his body with a whisper.

  As he rose from the undergrowth, he pressed his body against the rough exterior of a tall, green-needled tree. He was trusting that his six years of silent tracking and escaping would allow him to reach his targets without them drawing first blood.

  Even though the sun had returned, the sky still possessed a grayish hue, which combined with the darkness from the thick evergreen canopy overhead and the smoke now creeping into the woods, provided excellent cover for his advance. Slipping silently from trunk to trunk, he moved as a candle-dancing shadow, a dark form seen briefly before melting away. Though big-city born, Mike had watched and learned from his companions through the years, and had grown to become a child of the forest. His feet moved mutely as he steadily closed in on the attackers. He heard the steady exchange of gunfire along the highway and followed the sound of the large caliber machine guns.

  Pausing briefly in a thick bush at the base of a tree, Mike slowly scanned the woods before him. His heart pounded steadily, his lungs taking in deep, silent, controlled breaths. The mending bones of his ribcage strained with the expansion, but the pain was distant and mild. With each blast of the machine gun, he was able to narrow the area his eyes searched.

  There! His mind shouted as his eyes took in a slight flicker of movement several yards ahead. Though it was well hidden among the trees, he could see leaves rustling as the recoil of the large weapon pushed the surrounding air. With his target close, Mike pressed forward. It had only been minutes since the attack had begun, but he knew that the refugees faced an even more deadly foe that would be undeterred by gunfire. Then why were they crouching? his mind asked.

  As if sensing the need for stealth, Gazelle matched her master in both speed and silence as both glided forward towards the enemy. Whenever he paused to seek the next location of cover, she stood dutifully motionless by his side. Quickly, Mike had advanced enough that a line of fire opened up and he could see the man who controlled the machine gun.

  Covered in ragged clothing of brown and green, the man lay prostrate behind the weapon, with his right eye pressed tightly against the gun’s sight. Sparing a second to scan for cover once he took his shots, he slowly raised his firearms. To his right, he spied a thick congestion of entwined trees. Mike decided he would dive for their protection once he gave away his position by firing his guns.

  His index fingers gently curled around the cool metal triggers. With long-established reflex, he could feel the series of muscles contract as he squeezed. Before the familiar click that would send forth the projectiles, Gazelle let out a wild series of barks. The distraction forced one of the rounds to go wide, while the other embedded itself into the prone man’s lower back. The slow motion advance through the woods sped rapidly into flashes of action.

  At the onset of the dog’s barking, Mike had turned his head to his left as he blindly fired the guns pointed ahead of him. The bullets barely left their barrels before he felt the force of a collision. His weapons flew free from his hands once he hit the ground, followed by the crushing weight of a body smashing atop his own. His vision filled briefly with flashes of light while he screamed in pain as his mending ribs shattered once again. Hearing the growl from the figure crushing him, he managed to grab the Til’s throat before its mouth reached his flesh.

  Mike struggled to maintain his grip while the Til’s jaws snapped wildly just inches from his face. The creature’s face was covered in half-healed scars, and the skin beneath its nose was stained a deep red from the slow, consta
nt hemorrhaging of the virus. Scabbed fingers, some cut off at the knuckle and mostly nail-less, wrapped tightly around Mike’s wrist.

  Turning his face away from the Til for fear of its saliva or blood reaching his eyes and mouth, he could feel the strength leaving his arm, and his elbow continued to give way. Reaching with his free hand, Mike grabbed the hunting knife sheathed at his waist. Armed with the blade, he still could not risk releasing the creature’s blood while it was this close to his face. Marshalling the little flagging energy still within him, Mike let out a loud scream as he forced his arm to push the Til away from his body. As his tendons and muscles cried out, he moved the Til further and further back until his own arm was fully extended. He could feel his shoulder begin to buckle towards dislocation as he drove the six-inch blade through the Til’s eye. When the guard reached the skeletal socket, he gave a quick twist of the handle. The Til jerked once, and then again, before its arms dropped from Mike’s wrist. Shoving the dead weight to the side, he gasped raggedly to catch his breath, wincing as his lungs pressed into broken bones.

  With great effort, he struggled to his feet and began to search the thick woodland carpet for his fallen weapons. The metal showed clearly in the murky browns of the undergrowth. In the collision, both weapons had come precariously close to going over a steep incline some forty feet in length. His eyes searched the trees for further Tils, as he reached down gingerly to retrieve the guns. As he rose back to his full height, he noticed the distinct booming of the .50 caliber machine guns was absent amid the sounds of small arms fire. Mike wondered if it was an indication of another lull in the attack or if Lisa had achieved her target on the eastern side.