The Liger Plague (Book 1)

by Joseph Souza

  “David Goldstein?” The sight of his neighbor in such a depraved state shocked him.

  “Yes, I know. I wouldn’t want me as a friend either,” he said. “I understand that you’re more than advertised.”

  “I am, David, but not in the way you might think.”

  “Look, Winters, I don’t know what’s going on here on this island, but it has turned me into a raging psychopath. This hunger I’ve developed for flesh is voracious and unrelenting.”

  “What changed?”

  “I don’t know. Something inside me snapped once I came down with the virus. Of course, the people who know me might say I’ve always been a headhunter.” Goldstein laughed. “I feel like I’m losing my mind, Winters. All I want to do is kill and eat, eat and kill. What kind of a doctor does that?”

  “How come you don’t attack other infected people, David?”

  “The odor of their flesh repulses me. It smells almost rotten and sweet at the same time,” he said, sitting up in the sand. “They’re on the island.”

  “Who’s on the island?”

  “Whoever released this disease.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They came to my home. When I answered the door, they sprayed it inside and took off.” He rubbed his blister-covered eyes. “At first we thought it was a prank having to do with the art festival because the person was dressed in a tiger costume.”

  Tag wasn’t about to tell him it was no tiger.

  “Would you be a good neighbor, Winters, and kindly put a bullet in my brain? I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

  “You might recover, David. Don’t you want to see your wife and kids again?”

  “I ate my fucking wife, asshole.”

  Tag shuddered at this revelation.

  “You heard me right, Winters. And for your information, she tasted fucking delicious.” He started to stand despite the tears spilling out the corners of his eyes. “I ate a little girl too. Cute little thing with pigtails. Saw her standing on the corner of Main Street, alone and scared and looking for her mother. Trust me when I tell you I fought off the urge to consume her, but it got the best of me. Started at the kid’s stomach and worked my way up to her brain, devouring every last fucking delicious finger-licking morsel of that frontal lobe. Don’t ask me why I did it because I have no answer.” He looked up, and Tag thought he saw a look of regret over his monstrous face. “What the hell has happened to me? I’ve completely lost my humanity.”

  “It’s not the real you,” Tag said, backing away as the physician stumbled toward him. “It’s the disease that did this to you.”

  “I can never return to my life after this. Never! I’m damaged goods, so you might as well go ahead and get it over with.” He raised his arms up and stuck out his chest, waiting for the bullet.

  Tag raised his gun and pointed it at his neighbor. He knew he needed to kill him, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Killing someone he knew, especially one of his neighbors, was far different than killing a faceless poxer. If in the same situation, he knew he’d rather die than live with such a horrific memory. Instead, he bolted up the narrow dirt path, leaving the doctor behind. A few confused poxers staggered along the road despite the proliferation of shade provided by the canopy of trees, but he easily moved past them.

  Guilt washed over him. He knew he’d made a terrible mistake by allowing his neighbor to live, and he swore not to make the same mistake again.

  He heard someone calling out his name. Glancing back, he saw Fez sprinting down the narrow enclosure with a rifle in hand. Lumbering behind him was the arthritic lobsterman shouting at Fez to come back. The kid tossed the rifle over the fence and then scampered up and over it, jumping from the top and landing on the soft sand. He picked up the rifle, turned to Cooper and waved goodbye in an almost mocking manner. Tag’s diseased neighbor started to trot-limp over to Fez, but the kid raised his rifle and put the surgeon out of his misery. As soon as he shot Goldstein, Fez sprinted in his direction.

  “Tag, wait up.”

  “What are you doing, kid? You were supposed to stay back with the others.”

  “No way I could just sit there and do nothing knowing you’re out there by yourself.”

  “I should march you right back to that house.”

  “Won’t do any good. I’ll just bust out of there and come looking for you,” Fez said, staring up at him. “Come on, man, you know I can help. Maybe I’ll join the army someday like you and be a soldier.”

  “You don’t understand, kid. In the army, if you ever left your post, you’d be discharged for disobeying a superior officer.”

  Fez looked away, obviously disappointed, but Tag knew that if he walked the kid back to the house and the kid ran away again, Fez’s death would be on him.

  “Okay, you can come along, but you have to do exactly as I say.”

  “Have I disobeyed you yet?”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  They continued down the shade-covered dirt road. The deeper they travelled into the woods, the more the thick blanket of leaves blocked out the sun. Tag heard a crunching sound to his left. He stopped to see where the noise was coming from. They squatted down behind a rock. Tag looked to his left. The trees and bushes were dense and earthy. Fresh dew clung to the green vegetation, thick and lush, the moss like an alien creature. He raised his head above the boulder and saw dozens of them on either side of the road, closing in.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said, seizing Fez by the collar and pulling him along.

  They took off down the dirt path and toward the main road that encircled the island. Fez sprinted past him, despite having to carry the rifle strapped around his shoulder. The poxers started to high-step over the fallen tree limbs and branches, some getting snagged in the thorns and gnarly branches. The thorns pierced the hard shell of their skin, and Tag could see milky white pus flowing out of the puncture wounds.

  As the disease progressed, he knew that the body-length scab would become like leather until the new epidermal layer started to form and the old layer dried up and fell away. But what struck him most about this particular viral strain was how many of the infected had survived. He would have expected a higher mortality rate with the onset of such an insidious disease. While this particular strain seemed to be physically crippling, it didn’t appear to be lethal. It had obviously been engineered to facilitate the second component of the liger virus.

  They sprinted down the dirt road. Fez ran ahead of him, looking as if he could run forever. The kid was smart and resilient and could be an asset while he searched for his family. He’d already been a big help. The further up the dirt road they traveled, the more of the infected appeared. It was like a chain reaction; the closer they got to them, the quicker they were alerted to the smell of healthy human flesh. The road opened up ahead, giving them a brief window in which to pass.

  “How much further do we have to go?” he asked Fez.

  “Not much. Maybe a quarter mile.”

  “You going to make it?”

  “I can run and swim all day,” Fez said as he leaped gracefully over a rut in the road. “Why’re all them poxers hiding in the woods anyway?”

  “To stay out of the light. Now hurry. Once we make it out into the open, we should be safe.”

  They continued to run until Tag saw a beacon of light at the end of the road. Once they reached the paved surface, they stopped for a brief moment and caught their breath. The sun arced higher in the sky, warming the cool morning air. He glimpsed back into the corridor and saw the swarm emerging onto the dirt road and heading toward them. He waved to Fez, and they started running down the hill and toward the eastern end of the island, toward Krane’s Beach. He knew that their best bet was to travel out in the open where the sun’s rays were most powerful, which would make it hard for the poxers to locate the two of them.

  The paved road made it much easier to travel. They jogged down the steep hill, allowing gravity to propel the
m forward. The cool morning air felt refreshing, but Tag knew these conditions wouldn’t last. He expected it to get much warmer and humid as the day wore on, amplifying the stench of escaped human gases.

  Once they arrived at the bottom, they turned the corner and hid behind a large boulder facing the ocean. Hundreds of poxers staggered around on Krane’s Beach, seeking respite from the light. Some managed to make it up toward the road or find a tree or car to climb under and shield themselves from the sun. Their loud moans of melancholy filled the air with a sad dirge. It sounded like something an American soldier might have heard upon arriving at a Nazi concentration camp right after the war. He felt sympathetic for the victims of this plague, wishing he could do something to ease their suffering, yet he knew there was nothing to be done. Their immense mental anguish must have been too much for their own psyche to bear. Like Goldstein, the terrible acts they’d committed under mental duress must have been deeply repressed. Combine that with the effects of their brain impairment and it proved to be a tragedy that should never again be allowed to happen. Fortunately, to his knowledge, the disease had thus far been contained on the island and had not yet spread. For how long would it stay that way? All it would take was one boat or infected swimmer to make it ashore. He couldn’t imagine this blight spreading across the United States and beyond. No, he resolved that the virus had to end here.

  More poxers staggered across Atlantic View Road and headed up the hill toward the residential area. He knew they’d be seeking shelter from the sun. Removing his backpack, he checked to make sure his flashlight still worked. He had about twelve hours to find his wife and daughter before the team of Navy Seals arrived and rounded everyone up. The Seals would most likely use tear gas to drop them in their tracks. The chemical would cause a burning sensation along the surface of their blistered skin, made ten times worse on account of the sores running the length of their bodies. If the poxers’ central nervous systems had been dulled before this crisis, the presence of CS gas would certainly bring them roaring back to life.

  “What’s our plan, Tag?”

  “Door-to-door search. I need you to wait outside and warn me if you see anyone coming.”

  “When will those navy dudes be coming onto the island?”

  “I figure they’ll hit land tonight. See that navy ship out there cruising in open water?”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “It’s way offshore. If you look close enough, you can just see the silhouette.” He handed a pair of binoculars to Fez.

  “Yeah, I can see it now. Got some big guns on that sucker too.”

  “They’re not messing around.”

  “Why don’t they just come over here and grab them while they’re all messed up?”

  “Because these poxers are like cockroaches. First hint of light and they’ll go into their worm holes and wait. Navy must figure they’ll have a much better chance of rounding them up at night when they come out of hiding.”

  “But it’ll be dark and tougher for those Seals to see.”

  Tag laughed. “Ever heard of night-vision goggles? Once they put those glasses on, they’ll be able to see everything that’s going on here.”

  Tag took back the binoculars and was about to put them away when he heard the sound of human voices. He looked over and saw a group of men standing on Atlantic View Road, holding rifles. Yet another rogue group? Where had they come from? And where had they gotten the weapons? Better yet, he wondered how they had survived the outbreak. He lifted the binoculars and studied them. They didn’t look like the rough-and-tough bikers that he’d seen before. He counted six of them, and they were wearing white face masks similar to the ones he had stored at his house. They all looked relatively clean-cut and in good shape, and he reasoned that they must have lived in one of the more affluent island houses where they could remain isolated and protected from the fray. He couldn’t have been the only one that had prepared for an emergency. The six men huddled together on the road, staring at the poxers wandering along the beach.

  “Who are they, Tag?”

  “I can’t tell. Maybe you might recognize them.” He handed the binoculars back to Fez.

  “Crap! I know that guy. It’s Reverend Roberts. And the other guy I recognize too, but I can’t remember his name.”

  “Where do you know him from?”

  “TV and movies. He ain’t the star, but he always plays the crazy-ass bad guy. Dude’s had a house on Cooke’s for like ten years. Hardly ever see him in town. Stays mostly in his mansion on the west end of the island.”

  “Let me see those,” Tag said, reaching for the binoculars. “Which one is he?”

  “The tall dude smoking the cigarette.”

  Tag studied the man and instantly recognized him as Lee Stain, the evil villain in many Hollywood blockbusters. He was tall and thin with a severely receding hairline. Ironically enough, his face was heavily pockmarked from adolescent acne. His eyes were narrow and sunken into his skull, and he had that creepy quality about him that made him such an effective villain. Once he finished his cigarette, he flicked it aside and lit another. In the crook of his right elbow rested the butt of the rifle, his finger grazing the trigger and the barrel pointed skyward.

  “Yup, that’s him all right. Lee Stain. I had no idea he lived here.”

  “That’s the dude. And my mom says he’s a cheap son-of-a-bitch.”

  “How would your mother know?”

  “She waitresses part time at the Cooke’s Seaside Inn and Tavern. Said he once stiffed her after she served him and his lady friend an expensive meal.”

  “You mean to say a big actor like that didn’t leave your mother a twenty percent tip?”

  “Nope. Cheap bastard left her nada.”

  He returned his eyes to the glasses and studied the group. They seemed to be discussing something among themselves with Reverend Roberts doing most of the talking. Roberts was tall, extremely fit and good looking. He had a full head of blond hair that he combed straight back on his scalp. It looked to Tag as if Roberts was telling the others what to do. The other men nodded their heads, appearing to accept his judgment.

  Then the men split off. Four of them walked up toward the middle of the island. The other two headed down toward the beach. Tag wondered what these men were up to.

  “Let’s go down there and join up with those guys, Tag. Strength in numbers, right?”

  “Sure, but let’s see what they’re up to before we jump the gun.”

  “They’re splitting up. Two of them are heading toward Krane’s Beach. Maybe they think they can help them. Reverend Roberts is always preaching about helping the needy and putting money in the offering basket. Either that or they’re going to pray for their souls.”

  “Your family goes to his church?”

  “Try to most Sundays. Roberts gets on us when we don’t make it. Says he doesn’t want us burning in hell for failing to praise the Lord. My mom’s all religious and stuff, but me and my dad don’t care that much about going. We go for Mom.”

  Reverend Roberts and the other three men made their way toward the heart of the island, disappearing from sight. The other two guys walked down toward the beach, their rifles held down by their thighs. Watching them make their way down, Tag had a bad feeling in his gut. He quickly tucked the binoculars into his pack and moved out from behind the large boulder. The beach was roughly a half mile from their position. He ordered Fez to move as quickly and quietly as possible, and to head toward one of the cars parked along Atlantic View. The two of them jogged down the barren stretch of road. To their left was a pile of boulders covered in seaweed. Beyond that the ocean, vast and blue. The sound of waves crashing disguised their footsteps as they ran. The men walking toward the beach didn’t even notice them moving.

  Tag slowed and squatted behind a Ford Focus. The men stopped on the sand and stared at the poxers staggering along the beach. The tide was at its lowest and extended a hundred yards out, glistening with mollusks, seaweed and roc
ks. A group of poxers wandered along the water’s edge. They walked in such an awkward, rigid manner that the weight of their heels pounding the wet sand caused buried steamer clams to shoot water straight out of the sand. Without warning, the poxers on the beach stopped en masse and cried out, their arms over their afflicted eyes, sensing the presence of human flesh. They turned and staggered toward the two armed men, noses up and following the scent. The men puffed on their cigarettes, not in the least bit worried. Once they’d inhaled them, they tossed the butts on the sand and lifted their rifles.

  “Crap! Looks like they’re going to shoot them not pray for their souls.”

  “Let’s hope they’re only warning them to stay back.”

  “I hope your wife and kid ain’t down there, Tag.”

  “You and me both.”

  Jesus! The mention of Monica and Taylor sent a shockwave through his system. He felt a moment of indecision wash over him as he watched the men stare over the barrel of the rifles. He lifted his own rifle over the hood of the Ford and trained it on the nearest man’s head, his finger teasing the trigger. Should he shoot or wait and see what happened?

  Shots rang out, and he saw two poxers collapse to the sand. The two shooters shouted out and gave each other a fist pump. Tag set his sights on the nearest gunman’s head, cussing under his breath. He now knew why they had come down here. Roberts, like the other gangs they had come across, had one thing in mind, and that was to purge the island of every last infected person.

  This time there’d be no warning.

  Once he had the man’s head clearly in his sights, he pulled the trigger and watched the blood spray out of his skull. The man collapsed to the ground, dead before his head hit the sand. It took his partner a split second to realize what had happened, but by then it was too late. Tag put a bullet in his brain. The man fell back on the sand, his body forming into an unexpected sand angel. The poxers soon engulfed the two men and tore the flesh from their bodies. They huddled around them, pushing and shoving each other out of the way, throwing punches and fighting savagely. Their hunger seemed to propel them into a frenzy. Some started to bite one another, but only in order to get at the corpses. They chewed through the men’s stomachs and skulls, pulling out organs and fighting over the twines of intestines as if they were playing a game of tug-of-war.