Panacea
Page 1
PANACEA
© 2016 by Brad Murray. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from Brad Murray.
May 2016
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
2 MARCH 13, 1990
3 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
4 FEBRUARY 7, 1999
5 YESTERDAY – MAY 28, 2011
6 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
7 YESTERDAY - MAY 28, 2011
8 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
9 SEPTEMBER 15, 1970
10 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
11 APRIL 23, 1945
12 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
13 APRIL 24, 1945
14 TWO DAYS AGO - MAY 27, 2011
15 YESTERDAY - MAY 28, 2011
16 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
17 YESTERDAY - MAY 28, 2011
18 YESTERDAY - MAY 28, 2011
19 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
20 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
21 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
22 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
23 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
24 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
25 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
26 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
27 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
28 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
29
30 TODAY - MAY 29, 2011
31 TODAY – MAY 29, 2011
32 TODAY – MAY 29, 2011
33 TODAY – MAY 29, 2011
EPILOGUE JULY 4, 2016
1
Today - May 29, 2011
The sight of the severed arm made him woozy.
Sheared off at the shoulder, half of the arm rested on the black pavement while the other half crossed onto the parched yellow rye grass that lined the edge of the interstate. A young man in khaki-colored cargo shorts and a white t-shirt stood unsteadily above it, eyes glossed over in a daze, stomach churning. Blood dripped from the tip of the humerus bone and pooled on the concrete beneath it. A thin line of crimson meandered around rocks in the asphalt, cutting a channel in his direction, as if grasping for his shoes. He stepped out of the path and stood in a stupor, thinking back on the chain of events that led him here.
It all happened in a blink.
In that blink, a life was lost - maybe several more. He surveyed the chain of crumpled, smoking vehicles that had been victimized in the wake of the destruction. And though he knew he had been fortunate to survive, Jimmy Porter couldn’t shake the sensation that his life had changed forever.
***
Twenty minutes earlier
He was lost.
And in more ways than one. Sure, looking at a map he could point exactly to where he was, as the occasional passing of the road signs would confirm. But to be precise, he really had no idea where he was going – which would also serve as a fitting description of his life at the moment. He squinted into the glare of the morning sun to read the sign that was approaching.
St. Louis - 130
Jimmy Porter wiped away the perspiration that had formed on his forehead and huffed impatiently – another two hours to go. Maybe more…depending on exactly where he’d be sent.
The old white Chevy pickup groaned in protest, struggling to maintain sixty-five miles an hour on a busy I-44. While the steady stream of Memorial Day traffic scurried across south-central Missouri, Jimmy’s mind was laden with visions of engine parts clunking onto the asphalt, and of the old truck’s inevitable demise. Mounting to his anxiety was the fact it was nearly ninety degrees at not quite 9:30 in the morning and the antique truck didn’t even have air conditioning.
But he was determined. He had told the doctor he would be in St. Louis by noon and he absolutely hated to be late – especially for something of this magnitude. Where they’d meet in St. Louis, he didn’t yet know. The doctor had said he would call to give further instructions as Jimmy got closer. And that was good enough. After all, the man had answers about his father, and Jimmy would drive to hell and back if it meant finding the truth.
Though he had just checked not two minutes earlier, he reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out his cell phone. No new messages. Sighing heavily, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and wondered when the hell the good doctor would send further instructions.
Windows wide open, the sweltering wind blew through the truck cabin like a hairdryer, and the tires droned on the pavement while the engine howled in monotone. Two more hours of this was going to seem like fifty. As the miles slowly ticked by, a procession of vehicles cruised past. He eyed each of its occupants, and out of boredom imagined who they were and where they might be going.
A glum looking man wearing a sport coat in a red BMW – a lawyer heading back to his family in St. Louis, no doubt.
A minivan, filled to capacity with a mother and father and their three young children. In the rear, a little girl of no more than six sat sound asleep, a trail of drool dribbling down her cheek and onto the glass.
A weathered, white-haired couple in a beat up farm truck crept past - one of those flatbed types that is fully stocked with everything a farmer could ever need - an arsenal of well used tools, worn out tires, and rusted out chains. The farmer’s wife returned a sullen glance. Probably getting the morning errands done before spending Memorial weekend with the kids and grandkids, imagined Jimmy.
They all seemed so miserable, so gloomy and depressed. They were a parade of lost souls it seemed; a series of unappreciative, ungrateful schmucks who didn’t realize what they had. At least they had a family to go home to, Jimmy scoffed.
He checked his phone again. And again, no new messages. Searching for something – anything – to occupy his mind, he scanned his surroundings and immediately noticed the silhouette of a helicopter hovering over the interstate in the distance.
Must be a news chopper reporting on holiday traffic, Jimmy concluded.
A semi-truck hauling cattle cruised in the lane in front of him, the black eyes of its occupants staring back through the small openings in the trailer. Beyond the semi-truck, a mile or so ahead on the horizon, a small airplane dipped towards the ground, a plume of pinkish-brown smoke emanating from its belly. Jimmy watched as the crop duster arched skyward, almost hypnotized by the smoke cloud spiraling behind it.
Though from this distance it was hard to tell, the plane appeared to be extremely close to the news chopper - too close for comfort. As Jimmy let his mind wander, daydreaming of the massive explosion that would result from the collision, a jet black motorcycle shot by from out of nowhere, snapping him back to reality. He flinched as its high-pitched engine screamed in his ears.
“Asshole!” Jimmy reacted.
The driver was dressed head-to-toe in black. Black helmet, pants, gloves, boots, and a black leather jacket - all whizzing by at easily 90 miles an hour. No sooner than it had passed, the driver sharply decelerated and its brake light shone red. Jimmy shifted in his seat as it dropped even with the pickup’s driver-side window. The black-clad driver turned his head toward Jimmy and stared straight at him.
What in the hell? he thought. As Jimmy tried to make heads or tails of what the guy was up to, he noticed the driver’s odd helmet.
It was no ordinary motorcycle helmet.
Similar in design to a fighter pilot’s, the contour of the helmet rounded smoothly and fused seamlessly with the jacket at the neckline, as if the helmet and jacket were one continuous piece. Two corrugated tubes extended from the mouth of the facemask and snaked aro
und both sides of the helmet, where the tubes connected with circular metal fittings at the shoulders.
The cyclist momentarily shifted attention to something on his left wrist, briefly touching it with his right hand before reverting to his stare down with Jimmy. Jimmy straightened himself in his seat, his mind clouded by competing streaks of apprehension and curiosity. The intimidating awareness of not being able to see the driver’s face, the inability to see into the driver’s eyes and read his expression left it all to his imagination.
Most unsettling of all, the guy seemed to have no concern for the road, no concern for his own safety. He simply sat motionless, head cocked to the right – at sixty-five miles per hour. With each second that passed, Jimmy’s grip on the wheel tightened. His nerves had reached a breaking point. He had to do something – anything. He leaned his head out of the window, his face red and neck flush with bulging veins.
“Get outta here!” Jimmy screamed. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
But when he leaned his head out, he had inadvertently pulled the wheel to left, causing the truck to meander into the motorcycle’s lane. The two were close enough to grasp hands, yet the cyclist remained undeterred. Jimmy jerked the truck back into his lane, let off the gas pedal, and slowed the old pickup to fifty-five, hoping the cycle would move on down the road away from him. But the motorcycle slowed in harmony, remaining at Jimmy’s window.
His stare down continued.
Glancing at the rearview mirror, Jimmy noticed a line of cars had formed behind him, unable to pass the pair of slow moving vehicles. The driver of a red Explorer laid on the horn, and Jimmy could see the man was in the midst of a curse-filled tirade. Mind racing, searching for a solution, he briefly considered pulling off at the next exit.
No. There was no time for exits. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be late for something as important as St. Louis just because some dick on a motorcycle was messing with him.
Just as Jimmy dismissed the idea of turning off, the cyclist finally came to life. He swiveled his head to the road in front of him. The black bike shot forward and lurched into the right lane between the old pickup and the cattle trailer that was now a quarter mile ahead. Relieved the stare-down was over, Jimmy pressed his foot to the gas and brought the pickup back up to sixty-five. “Freak!” he said aloud, though no one was around to hear him.
He glanced down at his watch – 9:30.
I’ll make it by noon, no problem, he reassured himself.
He loosened his grip on the wheel, the blood returned to his numb fingertips, his heart slowly calming. As he kept watch on the black jacket in the lane in front of him and his thoughts retraced the events of the last few minutes, anger welled up inside. Jimmy allowed himself the dirty pleasure of imagining the moron wrapping himself around a telephone pole.
He pulled out his cell phone to check for messages again but the phone showed no bars. Reception in this hilly, woody part of Missouri must be spotty, Jimmy thought. He put the phone back in his pocket and tried to concentrate on the road, and on what he might learn once he got to St. Louis.
Something moved off the right side of the interstate. A blur of brown and white streaked towards traffic.
Deer.
His life in rural Missouri had prepared him for such encounters on the road. Instinctively, he let off the accelerator and lightly tapped the brake to warn the drivers behind him. His forearms stiffened and his grip on the wheel tightened. The cyclist simply didn’t seem to notice the creature, his head pointed straight ahead at the road in front of him.
In a horrible instant, brown and white fur merged with the black of the cyclist. The deer spun like a top, its body shooting into the air like a missile. A curtain of blood showered the windshield, rendering Jimmy blind. A split second later, the wheels of the pickup jolted violently upward. Gravity twisted and for a split second, he saw the blue of the sky through the passenger window. The world spun in a terrible, unfamiliar cacophony of glass breaking. Metal tore, scraped, and burned on the pavement. Sparks flew. Shards of glass and metal stabbed like a hundred miniature knives into his skin.
The truck came to rest upside down near the edge of the road. As he hung suspended by the lap belt, he became aware of the gut wrenching sounds in the distance - tires screeching and metal pounding against metal. The chain reaction from the vehicles behind him had to be terrible, he knew.
His faculties were out of focus.
He was fuzzily aware that his left ankle throbbed, but was conscious that the pain didn’t scream enough for it to be broken. His immediate instinctual concern was to get out of the vehicle. He reached across his body to release the seatbelt. After a bit of effort and a moment of panic, the latch popped free and he thudded onto his back against the ceiling of the cab. Crawling out of the battered truck, Jimmy felt a shard of glass sink into his palm. He winced and rolled onto his back and into the grassy ditch to avoid the remainder of the glass that had collected on the pavement. He struggled to his feet and gradually took in the chaos that surrounded him.
The noxious smells of antifreeze, gasoline, and burning rubber.
The agitating blaring of a car horn that had become stuck.
The panicked voices and pained cries that echoed around him.
Traffic on the other side of the interstate had slowed to a crawl. Some cars cruised on, leaving the scene behind them in their rearview mirrors. Others pulled into the median and jumped out to help. Jimmy limped down the road towards the scene of the destruction, a distorted mishmash of tangled metal which filled both lanes of the eastbound side of the interstate. His thoughts had become basic in nature.
People are hurt. They need my help. I have to help them.
As he limped to the closest vehicle - the late model red Explorer that had been cursing him moments before - Jimmy tripped over something on the ground. He looked back and noticed a black leather glove, lying palm down. Tucked under the glove at the wrist, the sleeve of a black jacket extended the length of the arm to the shoulder where torn leather dripped blood onto the concrete beneath it. Jimmy’s stomach dropped as he realized whose arm it was.
As Jimmy gazed blankly at the severed arm, in his gut stirred the uneasy sensation that things in his life would never be the same again. He felt as if he was at the precipice of something transformative; like he was standing at a crossroads for which he would forever look back and reflect upon. Why he felt this way, he could not explain. Perhaps it was the shock of the accident, or the sobering perspective that comes with witnessing death.
Suddenly, a brown streak in his peripheral vision stole his attention. He stepped back just in time as it zipped past him, sending his heart into his throat. It moved gracefully, elegantly bounding away and occasionally shifting direction from the humans and smoking piles of steel obstructing its path.
“Another goddamned deer,” said a man standing next to the crumpled red Explorer. He was middle-aged, balding, with thick, black-rimmed glasses that lay slightly off-center on the bridge of his nose. His gray Missouri Tigers shirt was torn and dotted with blood along the left shoulder and neck.
“I saw the whole goddamned thing. That motorcycle didn’t stand a chance. Guy flew off his bike and hit that sign back there.”
“Yeah, he never saw the deer at all,” said Jimmy emptily.
“That’s what happens when you drive like a stupid sum’bich,” the man said matter-of-factly. “Whipped ‘round me like I was standin’ still.”
“Yeah…” Jimmy’s voice trailed off.
What had the cyclist wanted from him? Looking over at his remnants strewn about the road and ditch, morbid curiosity encouraged the thought of walking over to uncover the man’s face, but as soon as he took a step in that direction, a dull metallic thud from behind stopped him in his tracks. He turned just in time to see a black bird sliding off the hood of a car. It fell to the pavement below, blood oozing from its broken wings, its body shuddering and tremoring in rhythmic spasms. A man shrieked from somew
here amongst the mass of vehicles, and soon others joined in, pointing to the sky.
Jimmy heard the rush of wings and turned his gaze toward the sky. A shadow cast over him as a mass of birds momentarily blotted out the sun. A flurry of beating wings and shrill cries filled the air. Two birds dropped like stones into the wreckage, sending people ducking for cover.
Jimmy stood in utter disbelief. His eyes wide, his mouth agape, he turned to Tigers Fan, whose reaction mirrored his own.
“What’s happening?” said Tigers Fan.
As Jimmy began to reply, the sharp sound of limbs cracking snapped both men’s heads towards the tree line. The sounds were muted at first; distant. Dozens of limbs cracked in succession and grew in intensity.
The ground began to quiver.
The leaves on the trees vibrated.
“What is that?” said Jimmy.
The man raised his eyebrows and timidly shrugged his shoulders as if to say “hell if I know.”
As the sounds intensified, both men began to back away from the trees. Their bodies tensed as the rumbling grew louder. Jimmy could feel the ground vibrating beneath his feet.
Something was coming their way. And in a hurry.
Muddled, repulsive squeals filled the air and escalated to the point of an intolerable ear-splitting pierce. The commotion climaxed to a chaotic crescendo; the trees lining the road quaked furiously, leaves and limbs erupted into the air. The forest felt as though it would burst open like a pent-up flood at any moment.
“Run!” yelled Jimmy.
He pivoted on one foot but an immediate bolt of pain shot up from his ankle. His leg buckled and he crumpled to his knees. In an instant, the thick woods exploded as creatures of all varieties cascaded out of the darkness and surged into the light, their hooves and paws tearing up the grassy earth beneath them.
Hundreds of them.
They were screaming; panicked for their lives. The terrified mob of deer, cattle, rabbits, squirrels, and coyotes trampled everything in their path, including some of the smaller animals that were knocked off-kilter and were instantly crushed by the throng that followed. In a second, the horde was flying over the road and the shocked accident victims standing on the interstate dove for cover. Jimmy crawled frantically to the Explorer, hiding himself behind the rear tire. Tigers Fan lunged behind the front tire, a fraction of a second before a convoy of animals hurled themselves over, around, and under the collective mess of vehicles on the freeway. The men plugged their ears with their fingers and closed their eyes, the clamoring of hooves and the distorted screams of the animals rattling in their ears. After nearly a full minute, the chaos finally subsided.