IMMUNE
By
JACQUELINE DRUGA
Immune
By Jacqueline Druga
Copyright 2015 by Jacqueline Druga
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental
Editing: Felicia Sullivan and K. Ravenwood. Thank you guys so much.
Cover Art by Christian Bentulan
www.coversbychristian.com
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One – The First Witness
Samaipata, Bolivia
It was the day of her death. Not that Mariana was ill. She was perfectly healthy. One hundred percent well. But she was going to die.
She was ready.
A young woman, barely an adult, made her decision. For nearly two days, she stayed in one room, watching the end of the world. At least to her, it was the end.
She prepared to leave. What would happen once she stepped outside her home was a mystery. Her tourist attraction village had gone from peaceful and serene to nothing less than hell on Earth. Streets splattered with blood, armed soldiers fighting the enemy, men and women in medical space suits.
Her primary focus for two days was Franz Vargas. He ran the bake shop in town and was the first person that told her about the illness. She was picking up a bread order and he was closing shop early for the day.
He warned her that people were falling ill at the snap of a finger. He conveyed that he believed it was more than likely something in the water. How ignorant and absurd. Falling ill at the snap of a finger was a ludicrous exaggeration.
Until she witnessed it with her own eyes.
Not one block from the shop, an old woman grabbed her arm, gasped, and struggled to breathe. Her eyes were dark, face pale, and before Mariana could do anything, the woman collapsed to the bench on the street.
Mariana ran all the way home.
After having done so, she finally noticed that old woman was the only person she saw. The streets, usually dotted with tourists, were vacant. Had they heard of the illness or were they all sick?
When she got home, her parents were rushing out the door. Her sister was ill with the mystery sickness and they were taking her to the hospital.
That was the last she saw of them.
That was two days earlier.
She did, however, see Franz. Alive and well until he was killed.
Whatever the illness, it caused some sort of violent mental disturbance. A transformation in the victims.
They looked dead, dropping to the ground motionless, only to get up again.
They rose into a violent state, ripping apart anyone that went near them. Chasing them down with a vengeance.
They moved oddly, twitching movements that seemed inflexible. As if parts of their bodies were broken.
That first night, she also heard them.
Mariana realized that many were not sick that first night, they were hiding like her. But those… things sought them out, pounding on doors, scratching at the walls, breaking windows.
They never saw her or sensed her. Unlike Franz, she was safe.
The first thing silenced was internet connectivity that went down before the sun, followed by any phone service, and finally the electricity. Military vehicles along with medical vans started rolling
Franz sought salvation from the infected pounding relentlessly at his home. He ran out, only to be pounced on by countless infected. When they were finished, Franz lay in a huge pool of his own blood, his insides ripped from him, a huge gaping hole in his gut.
Mariana watched him all night.
At first light, Franz rose.
She watched his figure contort its way from the ground to an upright position. He twisted and jerked, his legs shook, and his back wrenched left to right before he stood upright with defined, rigid movements.
A stiff turn of his head and he opened his mouth as if trying to speak or gasp for breath, and he made the same sound as the others.
The air rumbled against his tongue trying desperately to get into passageways that were closed. It sounded similar to snoring, only in a painful way.
She wanted to believe he was aware, though she knew the reality of that was slim. He wasn’t alive; he couldn't be alive.
Franz would become one of them. Pouncing on the uninfected, violently recruiting them into the sickened world.
No one was safe, not even the medical personnel. A woman in a protective suit held a clipboard up for Mariana to see.
Words written big, it read, ‘I am from The World Health Organization. Stay put. It will be over soon.”
The woman was attacked and killed right before Mariana’s eyes.
The soldiers surprised Mariana. Some remained and fought, trying to rescue people from their homes, but the rest withdrew with the trucks. When that happened, people panicked. The tourists in the hostels took to the streets with their luggage. It was insane to her. If they needed to escape, why weigh themselves down with heavy baggage?
By morning of the second day, it was mayhem. Screams and cries for help filled the air, and Mariana knew it was time.
She prayed for everyone. For the sick, the dying, the suffering, and then with a plan to head into the nearby park, her destination, Mariana slit her wrists and opened the door.
Holding out her arms in a ‘here I am, come and get me manner’, she was shocked that she was ignored.
The infected never came near her. It was as if she wasn’t there. They continued devouring the others while she stood among them.
In bare feet, Mariana walked down the street. Her soles sloshed through pools of thickened blood, people cried out to her for help, arms reaching out to her in desperation, but she didn’t stop.
What could she do?
Blood draining from her arms, Mariana grew weak. She brought her hands to her ears to block out the noise, the screams, the gurgling those things made. She ventured only as far as the end of the block when she heard it.
A high pitched whistle sound.
Peering up to the sky, Mariana saw the trail of white smoke and the object overhead.
It could only mean one thing.
Mariana lowered her arms, took a breath for courage, and waited.
The explosion arrived a split second later.
The medical worker was right. It was over.
TWO – DAY ZERO
Pittsburgh, PA
Some people were born too late. Myron Bauman believed he was a soul meant for the eighties, but somehow, he missed his spot in line and was born decades later. Even his name dictated that.
He felt it and knew it. REO Speedwagon music defined him. Not a day went by that he didn’t blast the past tracks while getting ready for work. He was a master of Atari, and despite the low resolution and often comical graphics, mastering such an old game was not an easy task.
Myron was different. He was creative and eclectic, and his aspirations and dreams didn’t require a college degree. He was quite happy working at the Game Shop as assistant manager. At twenty-eight years old he had his life ahead of him.
Myron was a large guy, larger in the middle with, as his grandmother described, chipmunk cheeks. He stood before his bedroom mirror, combing his thick brown hair and trying to look his dapper best for work.
Myron always did.
He could smell the cinnamon rolls baking, his grandmother was fixing breakfast. He had lived with his grandmother since he was nine when his parents decided to go to Aruba and never returned. They were alive and called once a year.
His grandmother was his all star; he would do anything for her, and vowed that even if he got married, his wife would have to
live there. He wasn’t leaving her alone. She supported his every whim.
When Myron wanted to join the football team, his Gram came to the tryouts. Myron didn’t make it because, well, he was slow and didn’t run quite as fast as everyone else did. At every gamer tournament, she treated him like he was a celebrity and when Myron decided to join the wrestling team, his grandmother was all for it. Although she did ask him not to wear those tights. They showed far too much of his ‘gentlemens’ and should a future wife be in the audience, she didn’t need to get a sneak peak before the wedding night.
She was fun, she also was the quintessential, cliché Jewish grandmother.
After he finished getting ready, he opened his door. His grandmother must have been listening.
“Bubby, its eight forty-two. You need to get a move on.”
“I’m hurrying, Gram.”
“I got cinnamon buns for you.”
“Be right there.” He moved across the small apartment, and she sat in the kitchen, fully dressed and hair done.
“Bubby! Don’t you look handsome today? Have a bun, you need your nourishment.”
“Thanks, Gram. I’m gonna have to eat it on the run. The manager just sent me a text, he’s sick. He’s not coming in.”
“Well, you do have those responsibilities, you never know who will walk in the store.”
He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
“And try to be home by evening. Purim starts.”
“I know.” Cinnamon bun in hand, Myron grabbed his music player and headphones and left for his day. He had no high expectations because nothing out of the ordinary ever really happened to Myron, and this day would be no different.
<><><><>
It was the third time in a year that Grace Howard spent the night in jail. Not that she was a criminal, far from it, in fact. Grace had never committed a crime in her life. However, some other woman with the same name, same birthday, had a laundry list of bench warrants and when Grace got pulled over, they arrested her and impounded the car.
She couldn’t be lucky enough to get stopped in the same borough. Three times. Three different areas of the city.
The previous time, she was in county lock up for three days because it was a holiday weekend. She had been fighting it ever since, and they kept assuring her it was handled.
It wasn’t.
At first she wondered if the mug shot would give it away, but when Grace saw the mug shot while in county, she saw why there was confusion. She and the other Grace had physical similarities.
She was released early and the arresting officer took her to the impound lot to get her car. The battery on her phone had died, so she had to wait until she got to work. She would have called off of work, but it was Wednesday and a big day for school tours.
Grace worked at the Museum of Natural History. With a degree in Archeology, she dreamt of traveling the globe, but that wasn’t feasible with a husband and two daughters, so Grace worked in the fossil division, dusting off bones while scores of schoolchildren watched her in the window.
She came close to going to Egypt once with the museum, but she quickly learned her passport had been revoked due to outstanding warrants. By the time she cleared that up, it was too late.
Grace arrived at the museum and was surprised to see there wasn’t a single school bus out front. Usually there were at least five or six.
Maybe it wasn’t Wednesday.
Her co-worker Mark was in the lab, already in his coat, already working.
“Morning,” she announced as she raced in and grabbed her lab jacket.
“You’re disheveled.”
“Well, I spent the night in jail.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“Grace Howard?”
“Yep.” She grabbed gloves and goggles from the counter. “I got pulled over for a taillight. Who ever knows when they have a taillight out? There should be an indicator system in your car.”
“So why did you spend the night in jail.”
“I had no one to vouch for me.”
“What about your husband?”
“Scott was home with the girls and he has this bug, Macy too.” She walked to her work area. “I was fine. They were very apologetic and bought me a latte.”
“What was his excuse last time?” Mark said. “I think your husband uses this as mini vacations from you.”
“Probably.” Grace looked out the big observatory window. There was one lone woman moving slowly through the exhibits. “Did we cancel tours today?”
“No, why?”
“I don’t see a bus and that…” she pointed to the woman, “is odd. Only one person.”
The woman moved aimlessly, staring down, as if looking for something.
“Hmm.” Mark peered out the window. “Weird. I can’t speak for her or the lack of people, I can speak for the buses. I guess you didn’t hear.”
“Probably not, I was in jail.”
“A lot of the schools canceled classes today. There’s a rumor that the virus is in the city.”
“How can that be? It’s contained in South America.”
“You know how people get,” Mark shrugged.
“I wonder if the girls had school. Shit.”
“What?”
“I better call to let Scott know I’m out.” Grace picked up the work phone and dialed. It rang without an answer. “Odd, he knows the work number.”
“You want to send a text?” Mark extended his phone.
“Yeah.” Grace reached out and when she did, from the corner of her eye, she saw the woman teeter. Grace turned her head to see the woman drop to the floor. “Oh my God!” Grace rushed to the window. “Mark, call 911.”
It was impossible to leave the lab and go directly to the main floor. Grace had to go out of the lab door, down the hall, and race around. In the few seconds it took her, security had arrived.
She wasn’t a large woman by any means, still wearing a winter coat, despite that it was fifty degrees out. But it took both security men to carry her because the woman began to thrash. Her arms fought the security men, legs kicking up and down, while her body twisted. Her head moved as well, and if Grace didn’t know any better, she would think the woman was trying to snap at the security men like a mad dog.
The security men tried to calm her as they carried her out of the main floor.
Stunned, and heart racing, Grace returned to the lab.
“What the hell was that?” Mark asked.
“I… don’t know. Some sort of seizure.”
“Hope it’s not that virus,” Mark said. “You’re screwed if it was.”
Admittedly, Grace didn’t know much about it. It had started in a small town in Bolivia, and had never made the news because it vanished as quickly as it started. It had resurfaced, garnishing attention, and the only reason Grace knew anything about it was because her nine year old daughter, Candice, asked.
She had responded with a quick Cliff Note version from information gathered on the internet. It didn’t seem scary, so Grace tucked it away in the back of her mind.
However, after watching the woman, hearing about the schools, and seeing the empty museum, Grace decided to check the internet one more time to see what was being said about the illness.
That was, of course, after she tried to call home one more time.
<><><><>
Paul Furlong typed the words, ‘Heading to Canada’ and hit send. He placed down his phone and sat back in the booth of his favorite Chinese restaurant.
He had a different perspective on things. Everything in the restaurant looked different, despite the fact that it hadn’t changed in two decades. Not even the waiter, Ed, had changed. Paul often wondered about him but never asked Ed anything about his background. All he knew was Ed worked for the previous establishment and he came with the deal.
A man in his sixties who looked seventy, Paul had been a ‘two times a week regular’ at Silver Palace since he was in college
twenty-years earlier.
Ed wasn’t Asian; he was the only worker there who wasn’t. But Ed was a staple and was always there.
Ed set the tea pot on the table and asked, “The usual?”
“Nah, let’s mix it up. Let’s do the shrimp and lobster sauce.”
“You are mixing it up.”
When Ed turned, Paul called out. “Hey, Ed. You know I have been coming here for decades, and I’ve never asked. Are you married? Kids?”
Ed shook his head. “Never had the chance. I worked two jobs to support my mother and pay for her medical expenses and by the time I knew it, life had passed me by.”
“So this isn’t your only job?”
“Is now but… look around. Can’t support a household off of tips in a local Chinese restaurant. I was an electrical engineer for thirty years.”
“Wow, you never know.”
“You never know.”
“Sorry you never got married or had kids,” Paul said. “I didn’t either.”
“Well, you know what they say. It’s never too late to find love.”
When Ed walked from the table, Paul released a sarcastic huff and said softly. “It is now.”
Paul glanced to his phone. No reply. But he was serious. He was going home and packing, he’d leave for Canada the next morning. It was the one reported place not hit.
At least a ‘clear’ place he could drive to.
“There you are,” a woman said then slipped into the booth.
“Here I am. I said I was going to lunch.”
Madeline Winston was a coworker. They didn’t have normal jobs, they worked for the health department under emergency management. Both of them had public health and science degrees. Paul was a nurse before moving on to the health department, Madeline a biologist.
“Yeah,” Paul sipped his tea. “This is the last time I’ll be here. I may get some takeout for the road.”
“You’re nuts. Why are you doing this?”
“Because they lied,” Paul said. “They lied. They said it wasn’t weaponized, and it is.”
Immune Page 1