Affliction Z Series Books 1-3

by L. T. Ryan

  “Dammit,” she muttered, annoyed at having eaten cold food. She rose again and carried the mug to the microwave. Thirty seconds later, she had a steaming hot meal. Half of one, at least. She took another look in the pantry and found a half-full bag of store-brand corn chips. She took one out and bit into it. It was stale, but it’d do. She took the mug of noodles and the bag of chips to the couch. She returned to the kitchen once more and grabbed a beer from the fridge. What the hell, she figured.

  She settled onto the couch after dousing it with disinfectant. The scented spray was not strong enough to cover up the foul smell left behind by Carla. Fearing that her roommate had defecated on the sofa, Addison moved to the recliner.

  She switched on the television. Over ninety percent of the stations available ran one of three news feeds. A map of the United States showed several dots of varying size and shades of orange and red. Every major city she could identify on the east coast had a bright red circle hovering over it. It looked a lot like an election map, only with the republicans winning major metropolitan areas.

  Vice President Harkness appeared on the screen. He urged that everyone exercise extreme caution and vigilance. He said that emergency services were still operating, and local law enforcement was there to protect citizens. There was no need, at this time, for martial law.

  Addison laughed at the statements. Her walk through town a few hours prior told her that the police were as scared as everyone else over what was happening. Any of them that had remained on the job would bail on the public soon enough.

  Besides, why was the Vice President addressing the public? Where was President Bryant? Had he become sick? Perhaps they’d already ushered him underground where he’d be safe while everyone else in the country perished.

  She pressed the mute button and left the sound off until the speech was over. She had no interest in words meant to calm people instead of telling them what was truly happening. She grabbed another beer out of the fridge. This one was slightly less warm than the previous beer. From the kitchen, she heard her roommate moaning.

  Was the woman awake and in pain? Or sleeping and having fever dreams?

  Addison fought the urge to check on Carla and went back to the recliner. She sat down as the Vice President’s speech ended. A brown-haired reporter came on. Above the woman’s head was a banner that said “Live.” Addison unmuted the television and turned the volume up. The woman had already announced her name and got all formalities out of the way.

  The reporter said, “The virus that is sweeping the nation has resulted in over five hundred thousand deaths globally, and at least ten thousand in the U.S. An unnamed source has informed us that while a large percentage of those who are affected will not survive, the length of time it takes for the body to shut down varies.” She paused and coughed. “Excuse me. It is the belief of our source that what we have seen today is only the tip of the iceberg.” The woman rose and turned away from the camera. The jerking of her body indicated a violent coughing attack. She turned around, a forced smile plastered on her face. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth and covered her lips. “Again, though this source is anonymous, I have no reason to doubt the validity of his statements. He further informed us that the virus has the ability to mutate those who are affected. As we all saw in the streets of Morocco, there were those who appeared to be attacking other humans. It was as though the attacking group were a pack of animals.”

  A man stepped in front of the camera, resulting in a bright white screen for a few moments. He reappeared across the desk from the reporter with a towel in his hand. He patted her face with it. She stared at her blood spread across the towel. Her eyes grew wide before she had another coughing attack. She grabbed the towel from the man and pressed it to her face. The fit did not stop. She rose and left the set. The sounds of her agony played through the speakers.

  Addison flipped to another channel. The station was replaying the Vice President’s speech. She muted the sound again. Carla coughed some more. Addison watched the clock, counting the minutes until her roommate finally settled down again. Five. Five minutes of non-stop coughing.

  Is that what’s in store for all of us?

  Ten

  Turk closed the door to his room and fell back into an oversized chair. The first day had not gone according to plan. Perhaps things happened the way they were supposed to. The virus spread across the country more rapidly than he ever imagined. The information he had been given said that the worst-case scenario would be a week from the first reports of outbreaks overseas. Maybe he’d been naive believing the information.

  Never trust the government, his dad had always said. As he had much of his life, Turk wished he’d listened to the old man.

  He reached into a side compartment built into the chair and retrieved a remote. He switched on a set of six thirty-two inch monitors mounted to the wall. Combined, they formed a rectangle that took up half the space. Two of the monitors displayed a full screen image of the two largest spaces in the compound, the kitchen and eating area, and the main living and recreation area. His wife and daughter were in the kitchen. His daughter stood on a footstool while his wife mixed something in a bowl. Maybe they were making cookies or brownies or something else that Turk didn’t approve of, but didn’t have the heart to say no to when his little girl asked if she could have some.

  The four other monitors were split into dual and quad displays. They monitored other areas of the facility, including bedrooms. Turk had told the others that their private areas were unmonitored. Maybe they would be, one day. But until he knew he could trust everyone inside, he’d watch them like a hawk.

  He adjusted the displays until one was free. Then he rose and retrieved a wireless keyboard that had a touchpad built into it above the number pad. He’d grown accustomed to using it over the past few years, and figured why let the end of the world stop him.

  First he pulled up the SSH server. Sean was still logged in, but showed idle. Tim Lindley was logged in, too. Tim had served in the SEALs with Turk in the late nineties. Now, Tim had his own island in the Exumas, an archipelago in the southeast corner of the Bahamas. His island was about a quarter-mile across and a mile long. It had fresh water and plenty of vegetation. Tim had built his own compound on the island, taking advantage of wind, solar and water for power. It was completely isolated, too, with nothing for tens of miles in any direction, except for a few sweeping sandbars. Tim had nicknamed the island Turtle Cay. When pressed by Turk for information on how he was able to pay for it, Tim declined.

  Turk’s plan was to lead his people to Turtle Cay after the chaos died down. He figured they’d make their move in a year, unless their position became compromised.

  He pulled up a cursor prompt and began typing. “How’re things there, Tim?”

  A few moments later, Tim replied. “Wouldn’t know the world was in chaos from where I’m sitting.”

  “You secure your boats?”

  “They’re up on land and inside concrete bunkers.”

  “Did you manage to get a plane?”

  “Ten-four,” Tim replied.

  “Let’s hope you never have to use it. It’s gonna be a bitch up there soon.”

  “Not so much up there, but trying to figure out where to land and refuel.”

  “I know. I don’t want you to put yourself in that situation unless we’re sure you can get gas.” Turk paused for a moment to check the camera feeds. “Anyway, we’ve discussed this a dozen times. I just wanted to check in on you and make sure all was okay there. Did you manage to get the kids and their families to the island?”

  “All but one.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “He’s on a boat, and we’ve been in touch. He should be here in a week at the latest.”

  As long as he doesn’t have to go to shore. Turk ended the conversation by telling Tim to stay logged on and to check in every six hours by posting a message. If only he could get more people to do the same. They were all i
n for a lonely few weeks, or months. For some, the server might be the only contact they’d have. But for how long? Those that didn’t have a means of satellite communication would be cut off at some point.

  When would that be?

  Turk pulled up the AP news site and scanned the latest articles. He figured in a few days the updates would stop. Reporters would either get sick and die, or get sick and mutate. Maybe one or two would survive the initial virus, but then what? If they had no support network in place, they were as good as dead, like most anyone who survived this thing.

  One report caught his eye. Cities had begun establishing shelters for people to gather. A recipe for disaster in Turk’s opinion. Someone who took longer to show symptoms would make their way inside the shelter, infecting countless others. Some would die. Some would turn. They would kill anyone left. And what about those turned beings wandering the street? How long until they smelled the stink of the living and found their way to the source?

  He minimized the browser and adjusted all six monitors back to their original configuration. He saw his brother enter the living and recreation area. Marcus walked through the room as if he owned the place. Had it been a mistake to welcome him into the compound? Turk hadn’t thought so until the incident with the police officer. He knew there would be some immaturity to deal with. He hoped that watching the world fall apart would be enough to force Marcus to grow up and take things seriously. Apparently not. He had to keep his brother on a short leash. If things boiled over too far, and someone had to go, Turk had to be prepared to make his brother be that someone if he deserved it.

  Marcus walked into the kitchen. Turk’s gaze shifted to the next monitor. He saw his little girl cringe, get off her stool and move to the other side of her mother. Turk leaned forward and adjusted the volume for that display. Nothing happened, though. He didn’t need sound to know that Marcus had offended Turk’s wife. The woman dropped her mixer and aimed a loaded finger in the man’s direction.

  Turk cut the displays and left his room. He let the door fall shut, then engaged the security lock. He walked down the long, dimly lit hallway, and then cut through a passage that only he knew about. The secret hall led to the pantry, which, when he emerged from it, placed him directly behind his brother.

  “What are you doing, Marcus?” Turk said.

  Marcus spun around. His eyes and mouth were open wide. Behind him, Turk’s wife Elana smiled. Layla stepped out from behind her mother. Tear tracks stained her cheeks.

  Turk held out his hand and gestured for Layla to go back to her mother. He took a step toward Marcus. They were within arm’s reach of each other.

  “I asked you a question, Marcus.”

  Marcus licked his lips and smiled. “Just messin’ around, bro. That’s all.”

  Turk took another step. He was close enough to smell the garlic on his brother’s breath. “Why’s Layla crying?”

  “You know kids, man.”

  “I’m going to make this as clear as I can. I don’t want any trouble in here. We’re all inside this building for a common purpose. Nobody needs an asshole to screw this up. First one that goes will be you.” He held up a finger as Marcus opened his mouth. “I know what you’re gonna say. Forget about it. I don’t care what Mom made me promise. The moment you endanger my family is the moment I have no use for you. That clear?”

  “Crystal,” Marcus said through his clenched teeth.

  Both men remained still, staring at each other. Turk felt beads of sweat on his forehead, and trickling down his chest and back. His muscles stayed tense, waiting for an attack.

  Finally, Marcus let his shoulders slump and he took a step back, turned, and left the kitchen. Turk blocked the door for a minute afterward. He felt Layla grab hold of his hand. He wished his other daughter, Becky, had hold of the other. But she wasn’t there, and Turk knew he had to come to grips with the fact that he might not ever see her again.

  “What did he say?” Turk asked Elana.

  “It was nothing.”

  Turk looked at her and lifted an eyebrow. “Nothing? Why was she in tears?”

  “Because I yelled at him.” She paused and looked up at the ceiling. “Just let it go, Turk. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

  He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to let it go. If there was a serious issue, he wanted it resolved then and there. Not three months down the road when the team was so tight that the loss of one person destroyed their odds.

  “Please?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’ll leave you two to your cookies.”

  Eleven

  The overwhelming feeling of fatigue led Kathy to take exit 133. She stopped at the end of the cloverleaf ramp, removed her helmet and took out her phone. The cool night air penetrated her sweat-soaked hair and raised the flesh on her scalp and the back of her neck. Gas vapors overwhelmed her nose.

  She searched for the exit on her map and realized she was only three miles away from the Highway 20 exit. That was the road she planned to use to take her from West Virginia into Virginia. Though she was only forty miles from home, she knew from experience that the road that traveled through mountains, and it was full of jagged switchbacks. The trip would take a good two hours, and she’d need to be on top of her game for it. And at the moment, she was in danger of falling asleep at the handlebars.

  She secured her phone and placed the helmet back on her head. Then she turned right onto Pluto Road and made the first left. The narrow road dead-ended into a dirt trail. She walked the bike onto the trail and around a cropping of trees. The area on the other side was a deserted lot, shielded from the road and the interstate. The closest home stood a quarter-mile away. They probably heard her pass, if they were home, but being so close to the highway, she doubted they’d bother to investigate.

  Kathy cut the headlight and rested the motorcycle on its kickstand. Moonlight lit up the area, revealing no more than her artificial light did. She stripped off her jacket, shirt and pants and let the night air wash over her body. It wasn’t a jetted tub, but it was still better than nothing.

  Sufficiently cooled, she put her clothes back on, balling the jacket up and placing it on the ground. She lay down and rested her head against the makeshift pillow. The engine of the motorcycle ticked, and gas fumes lingered heavy in the air. She didn’t care. Every muscle in her body fought against moving, so she stayed where she lay.

  She imagined the occasional vehicle passing by on the interstate to be a wave crashing to the shore. The sounds of the night, crickets, the wind through the trees, and the tidal cars, lulled her to sleep.

  When she woke, the sun had begun cresting over the tops of the trees. The first rays fell upon her face. She winced after opening her eyes, reflexively shutting and covering them with her hands before reopening. Cars passed by on the interstate in regular intervals now. She recalled seeing on the map that there was no direct way to get to Highway 20 without getting back on the interstate for a few miles. Though loathe to do this for fear of who and what might be on the road, Kathy gave in, realizing she had no choice in the matter.

  She propped herself up on her elbows and glanced around. Where she had slept was recessed from the rest of the field, so it would be difficult for someone to see her without walking up to her. Of course, the bike stood out like a sore thumb. Still, no one had approached her during the night. At least, not that she was aware.

  She hopped up, stretched and then straddled the seat. She turned the key in the ignition while engaging the clutch. The motorcycle turned over, but did not start.

  “What?” she muttered.

  She tried again. The engine coughed back at her. She glanced at the gauges and realized that the bike had no fuel. The fumes she smelled last night were just that. The final vapors of gasoline that powered the motorcycle down the narrow road.

  Kathy glanced up and cursed out loud. She’d been so tired the night before that she’d forgotten to check the simplest, yet most important thing.

  She place
d her left foot on the ground and swung her right leg back over. There had been a gas station on the other side of the interstate where she exited. She could walk the bike there and refuel. She started toward the road, both hands on the handlebars, her legs awkwardly avoiding the bike and each other. The toughest part was getting through the grass and around the trees. Once she did, it became easier as the bike seemed to roll better on the asphalt, no matter how worn and cracked the road was.

  She stopped in front of the lone house on the street. The battered, weathered wood siding looked as though it held generations’ worth of stories. She contemplated going up to the door. Someone could live there, she thought, although it wasn’t likely. Not with two two-by-fours across the front door and several broken windows. The one thing that stood out was the detached garage.

  What if there was gasoline in there?

  She rested the bike on its kickstand and cut across the lawn. A musty smell surrounded the garage. Cobwebs covered the row of five darkened windows. Why weren’t they shattered? She reached down for the handle and pulled. The door didn’t budge. She walked around the structure in search of a regular door, but didn’t find one. She did find a brick though. She picked it up off the ground and returned to the front of the structure where she cupped her hands over the glass and peered inside. The garage was mostly empty, with a few cans stuck on dusty shelves. One looked like it could be a gas can. The building was the right size to house a riding lawn mower, too.

  Kathy inhaled deeply, and then took a step back with her arm raised and cocked. All she had to do was break the window enough to get her head inside. If the garage contained gas, she’d smell it.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  She let the brick fall to her side and lifted both hands over her head.

  “Turn around,” the man said.