HOT ZONE: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Thriller (The Zulu Virus Chronicles Book 1)

by Steven Konkoly

  “If we decide to leave town, we’ll make a run over to her house to see if she’s back,” said his dad. “There’s only so much we can do before we need to get out of here.”

  “We can’t leave without her.”

  “We won’t. If she’s here, we’ll bring her with us, even if it means bringing jackass with us.”

  Joshua stifled a laugh. He really didn’t like his mom’s boyfriend either. The guy perpetually oozed self-importance, occasionally pausing long enough to fake a little interest in Joshua’s life—and his mother’s, it seemed. He didn’t understand what his mother saw in the man, but she seemed happy overall, which was all that mattered. She’d been through several obviously frustrating relationships since the divorce, all abruptly ending with late night telephone tirades. Most of the single dudes around his mom’s age were complete dickheads. At least that was how they treated his mom.

  “Stay safe, Dad,” said Joshua. “I’ll start working on the gear when Mr. Aleman leaves.”

  His father didn’t respond.

  “Dad?” said Joshua, hearing no response. “Dad? You there?”

  He examined the phone’s screen, seeing the word SEARCHING where he should see a solid three reception bars. Joshua waited for the indicator to change, thinking there must have been a quick glitch with the cell tower a few neighborhoods away. While he stood at the kitchen island, waiting, he sent a quick text to his dad. He remembered learning that text messages often got through when cell service was unavailable or busy, because it took a fraction of the data to transmit.

  A minute later, his dad hadn’t replied. A small message had appeared under his text. UNABLE TO DELIVER. What the hell was going on? He sent the text again and walked to the edge of the doorway leading to the foyer hallway, checking the front door. The flashlight was gone, and so were the voices. He’d give it a few more seconds and dash upstairs to get his dad’s pistol. After seeing that his second attempt to send a text message failed, he stepped into the hallway and made his way upstairs.

  Joshua grabbed the pistol from his desk and tucked it into the waistband of his cargo shorts, debating whether to take another look through the blinds. There was no point. He was heading back into the basement after the pizza was done. No way he was going to sit down there and eat one of those nasty MREs when he could have pepperoni pizza.

  Back in the kitchen, he opened the freezer door and removed the pizza, quickly shutting the freezer. He started to tear open the cardboard box in front of the stove when a beam of light hit the refrigerator, followed by a firm knock on the patio slider’s thick glass panel.

  “I told you. Someone’s in there!” said a voice, which sounded clear through the glass.

  Joshua crouched below the level of the kitchen island, quietly placing the pizza box on the floor. He’d screwed up big time. The neighbors had circled around to the deck. Now what?

  “Josh! It’s Mr. Aleman. Is that you in there?”

  What were the odds that they’d go away if he just stayed silent? Probably not very good, but then again, what could the neighbors possibly do? There was no way they’d break in. Not a cop’s house, even if they knew he wasn’t home. Right? He wasn’t sure. Now at least two of them were knocking on the glass door.

  “We just want to get some information about what’s going on out there! People are starting to migrate out of Indianapolis. The Cadys next door to you had a breakin. Three guys walked here from the west side of the city. Come on, Josh. We know you’re in there.”

  His dad said not to trust anyone, but Aleman sounded reasonable enough. Agitated, but not crazy. He just didn’t see them going away anytime soon.

  “Hold on!” yelled Joshua, and the knocking stopped.

  He stood up and tucked the back of his shirt between the pistol’s grip and his body so he could easily grab it if things went wrong. Standing to the side of the wide patio door, he pulled the drawstrings, raising the blinds above his head, before flipping the deck lights on. He peered around the wall, seeing that they’d backed up to the deck’s railing. Satisfied that they weren’t trying to bust right into the house, he unlatched the glass door and pushed it open a few inches, realizing he’d forgotten to lower the security bar into place earlier. It shouldn’t have budged at all. Another screwup on his part. What else had he forgotten? Deeper in the house, the alarm panel beeped twice, acknowledging that the door was open.

  He recognized all of them right away with the light. Mr. Aleman nodded with a smile, holding both hands out in a gesture of neutrality. Mr. Roscoe stood in the middle with his arms crossed, a friendly enough look on his face. He lived on the other side of the Cadys and had probably been the one to call the police. The man on the left was Mr. Pavram. The Pavrams had introduced Joshua to Indian food a number of years back when his parents were barely still together—hosting them for dinner. It was the last time they did something like that as a family. Things had deteriorated at home soon after, and nothing was the same again.

  “Good evening, Joshua,” said Pavram. “Hope we didn’t scare you.”

  “Sorry about hiding,” said Joshua. “My dad was very specific about me staying out of sight.”

  “That’s because your dad is a smart guy, Joshua,” said Mr. Aleman. “Does he know what’s happening?”

  Feeling comfortable about the situation on the deck, Joshua opened the door several more inches.

  “I just spoke with him. He really doesn’t know what’s going on, but it sounds like things are out of control up in Westfield. He really just wanted me to stay hidden in the basement until he got home.”

  “When is he coming back?” asked Roscoe. “We could use a law enforcement presence around here.”

  “He doesn’t know. The department was hit hard by this flu bug thing, so he’s pulling overtime,” he said, stretching the truth a little.

  “That’s the thing we can’t figure out. Everyone that works in Indianapolis is sick with something, but it’s not the flu,” said Aleman. “The only thing this bug has in common with the flu is a high fever and headache. I’ve Googled it. If this was a late season flu or, God forbid, a pandemic flu, the symptoms would include coughing, chills, body ache—all the usual stuff you feel when you’re sick. This is something different.”

  “I guess. I don’t know. My dad is just doing his job,” said Joshua. “It sounds like a mess out there. What happened next door? I heard you say something about these people.”

  “A group of three scumbags broke into the Cadys’ house while they were eating dinner. Jimmied their patio slider latch,” said Aleman. “Make sure you put up the security bar. That’s how those assholes managed to break into the Cadys’. Just jiggled the damn latch, apparently.”

  “Is everyone all right?” said Joshua.

  “Yeah. They ran upstairs with the kids and locked themselves into a bedroom while the guys tore the place apart. They didn’t put up much of a fight when the police showed up. Lots of yelling, but that’s about it. They said Indianapolis was like a scene out of the Walking Dead. I had to look that up. Zombie show.”

  Mr. Pavram spoke up. “We’ve watched it from the beginning. Completely depressing, but addictive.”

  Aleman and Roscoe gave him a funny look, which caused Joshua to laugh. He loved the show.

  “What?” said Pavram, winking at Joshua. “I have to know what’s going to happen with Rick. He’s like one of the family at this point.”

  “I really have no idea what he’s talking about,” said Aleman, laughing along anyway.

  Roscoe shook his head. “I’m trying to picture you and Mrs. Pavram watching a zombie show.”

  Pavram shook his head. “Oh, no. She won’t watch. Too scary for her. I have to DVR it and stay up late.”

  They all shared a brief laugh until the gravity of the situation pulled them back to reality.

  “Can you ask your dad to give me a call when he gets in?” said Aleman. “Having him around will give the neighborhood some peace of mind. Everyone is scare
d. Especially with people migrating out of Indianapolis.”

  “Sure,” said Joshua. “Did the police take the people away?”

  “Of course,” said Aleman. “I mean…they drove away with the guys. Why?”

  “I don’t know. My dad made it sound like the police have their hands full with calls like this.”

  “Man, that’s not good,” said Roscoe.

  “No. It’s not,” added Pavram. “If they can’t incarcerate these kinds of violators, they’ll probably just drive them to the town limits and shoo them away.”

  “I’m sure they’ll do more than shoo them away,” said Roscoe.

  “I don’t think so,” said Pavram, sighing. “Zionsville is only a mile and a half west of here, and Westfield is a few blocks north.”

  “They wouldn’t take them north,” said Aleman. “My bet is they’ll take them south.”

  “Maybe so, but where do you think the Westfield Police Department will take their violators?” said Pavram. “Carmel is south of Westfield. What comes around, stays around.”

  “Goes around,” said Aleman.

  “However you say it,” said Pavram. “I think we might all need to take Joshua’s father’s advice and barricade ourselves inside.”

  “We’re better off forming a neighborhood defense,” said Aleman. “Safety in numbers. We all keep an eye out and spread the word if more people appear, so everyone has some warning. Then we call the police.”

  Joshua glanced back at his phone on the kitchen island. “My phone lost cell service a few minutes ago. I couldn’t get a text to go through either.”

  “What?” said Aleman, digging his phone out of his pants.

  “The kid’s right,” said Pavram. “My phone says SEARCHING. That’s not a good sign.”

  “I was talking to my dad when the call went dead. My phone said the same thing. SEARCHING.”

  “Shit. This is bad,” said Roscoe. “I need to get home.”

  “Fuck,” muttered Aleman. “Me too. Joshua, please ask your dad to stop by when he gets back. In the morning or something. He’ll probably be wiped out from his shift. We’ll make him breakfast. Seriously. You’re invited, too, of course. We’re going to need his help to keep the street together.”

  “I’ll let him know,” said Joshua. “Even though he’s gonna be pissed at me for this.”

  “I’m sure he will, but we’ll change his mind with a hearty breakfast. I appreciate your honesty. You’re a good kid. Always have been,” said Aleman. “We’ll let you get back to hiding or whatever you were doing. Frozen pizza, perhaps?”

  Joshua nodded. “Busted.”

  They all laughed for a few moments.

  “Your secret is safe with us,” said Aleman. “Make sure you install the security bar after you shut the door.”

  “I will,” said Joshua. “Thank you. And sorry for hiding earlier.”

  “Sounds like we should all be doing the same until tomorrow morning,” said Aleman.

  The three men disappeared after stepping off the deck and out of the light’s illumination arc. Joshua flipped the light switch, returning the backyard to darkness. He wondered if that was such a good idea, with burglars prowling the neighborhood, and turned the lights back on. He’d do the same with the front porch light, now that the neighborhood knew the house wasn’t empty. He should have listened to his dad.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  David Olson stared at his phone, annoyed with the dropped call. He pressed redial, immediately getting CALL FAILED. Really? The word SEARCHING appeared at the top of the screen. He needed this like a hole in the head right now. His son was prancing around the house, making pizzas, attracting the entire neighborhood to their house, and now it looked like he was going back out on patrol.

  Getting shot in the head while standing next to your partner, who also took a bullet, only got you a ten-minute break—after the paramedics finished bandaging your head. At least they sent him back to the station, where he could let his guard down for a while. He’d felt like a target in the Interceptor, even when the streets were empty and quiet.

  What he really wanted to do was go home to his son. From what he guessed, there were hundreds, if not thousands of individual time bombs, like the crazy-wife shooter tonight, waiting to go off out there. David was rapidly approaching a serious decision point. Maybe he’d already reached it. Right now, he just wanted to talk to his son, and his phone was still screwed.

  “Anyone else having phone issues?” he asked the half-filled briefing room.

  Tired faces looked up, some of them already with phones in hand. The others dug through their pockets for their devices.

  “This piece of shit just cut off a call to my husband,” said Jody Price, an officer with a few more years on the force than David. “Looks like it’s searching for a cell tower.”

  “Mine did the same thing,” said David. “The call failed when I tried to call my son back.”

  “I thought my flip phone finally crapped out on me,” she said, shifting in her seat. “Your son’s home alone?”

  “Yeah. All alone on such a wonderful night,” he said, not attempting to disguise his displeasure with that fact.

  She shook her head. “You should be home with your kid.”

  “Isn’t he a senior in high school?” grunted an officer slouched in his seat, arms folded and head rested against the back of the chair.

  “Something like that,” said David.

  “Then he’s fine,” said Mitch Grimes, not moving any part of his body besides his mouth.

  “You really think so?” said David. “I just got back from a call where a mother beat her husband half to death with a baseball bat, then turned it on her kid. She capped off the night by unloading a pistol on Bower and me.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about,” said Grimes.

  “What do you mean by that?” said David, knowing exactly what he meant.

  “I mean you don’t have to worry about your wife.”

  “Fuck you, Mitch!” yelled David, abruptly getting up from his seat.

  The other officer nearly fell out of his seat, trying to scramble to his feet.

  “Take it easy! Both of you!” said Price, already on her feet. “We’ve got enough problems—out there. Sit the fuck down.”

  David reluctantly lowered himself, shaking his head and glaring at Grimes the whole time.

  “We all have family at home, Dave. You’re not the only one hanging on by a thread,” said Grimes, taking his seat, but remaining upright and alert.

  He was right. Everyone was in the same boat, walking the line between duty to the job and duty to home. Inevitably, each and every officer here would have to choose between the two. It wasn’t a matter of if—more like when—and David planned on making that decision sooner than later. Until then, he planned on playing it even safer than before.

  “Sorry, Mitch. This got me a little freaked out,” said David, touching the bandage taped to his forehead.

  “Just a little?” said Grimes. “You got shot in the fucking head.”

  They all shared a quick laugh.

  “Yeah. I guess I did.”

  “My phone’s screwed, too,” said Grimes, raising his voice. “What the fuck is going on out there?”

  Sergeant Jackson appeared in the briefing room doorway, carrying a clipboard and a phone. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. Nothing good.”

  “Thanks for the news flash, Sarge,” said Price.

  “It gets better,” said Jackson, pulling a chair next to the podium normally used for shift briefings. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit. It’s either that or risk falling on my face. How is everyone feeling? Don’t answer, David. By the way, Officer Bower is expected to make a full recovery.”

  “Back on the frontlines tomorrow?” said David.

  “Very funny,” said Jackson. “Not my fault that little scratch didn’t qualify you for a hospital bed.”

  “Nine-millimeter scratch,” said David.

>   “And we’re thankful that’s all it turned out to be,” said Jackson. “Seriously.”

  “Sarge, I’ve been on for thirty-eight hours with no break,” said Grimes.

  “I’m pushing thirty hours,” said Price.

  The three other officers in the briefing room expressed similar sentiments. David suddenly felt a little guilty. He was just coming up on twelve hours—nothing compared to thirty.

  “That’s why I pulled the five of you in here, plus David. I can’t put an officer that just got shot in the head back on patrol. That would make me look bad,” said Jackson.

  David laughed with the rest of the officers. It sounded like he had something different in mind for them, which was interesting.

  “Don’t get all laugh-happy yet. I got good news and bad news,” said Jackson. “Bad news is that nobody is going home.”

  “Shit. You gotta be kidding me?” said Grimes.

  “I wish I was,” said the sergeant. “The good news is that you won’t be going back out on patrol. Not for a while. Actually, I wasn’t done with the bad news.”

  “You’re killing us here,” said Price.

  “Turns out that some of the speculation about this being a flu pandemic must be true. The National Guard is setting up a quarantine perimeter around Indianapolis, using the 465 Interstate. They’ll block all of the entrances, underpasses and overpasses, while patrolling the highway and some of the street areas around it. It’s far from a perfect system, so the state will form a secondary containment line to grab anyone that manages to slip through the 465. Part of that secondary line cuts right through Westfield. Route 32.”

  “We’re gonna have the National Guard running around here?” said Grimes.

  “Don’t knock it. We could use the help,” said Price.

  David stayed quiet. Something wasn’t right about this. The flu pandemic was only part of the problem. A quarantine would do nothing to halt the epidemic of violence erupting for no apparent reason in homes across town. Or was it all connected, and the “flu pandemic” was something altogether different? Something government health officials were keeping quiet. The thought pushed him off the fence. He would head home to Joshua when the opportunity presented itself.