His memory was triggered from the evening before when he’d arrived at the ranch. He should have left before going in. He should have… what? Stopped his plans? No. He wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to be afraid of something he created, something he modified. He knew what the dangers were. He knew what the possibilities had been.
Jackson was just mad that he hadn’t been prepared for it. Why hadn’t he thought it out? He should have left before they returned with the Cure. He knew better. Murphy’s Law was the only thing that he hadn’t accounted for.
He slammed his palm into the top of the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. Come on. He knew better. His ego had gotten in the way and he’d been more interested in seeing the cowboys get their karmic payback rather than thinking clearly.
Parking as close to the front of the motel as he could without actually being in the building, Jackson grimaced. There was a lot he still had to do and not a lot of time to do it.
Climbing from the cab, Jackson winced at the sting of a chilly breeze across his hyperaware flesh. Was that a construct of the toxins? Or was he overly aware because he knew he was infected? His wounds would weaken him and he would have to take that into consideration as he prepared to hunker down. He stared morosely at the tops of the pines swaying in the wind, capturing the sunlight trying to get to the ground. Maybe the rays were trying to get him.
Jackson shook himself back to action. Grabbing the backpack, he pulled the guns from the pockets and tucked them under the front seat. He didn’t need the option of guns nearby when he locked himself in whatever room he could get into. When he went crazy, he didn’t want to actually kill himself – even if he did at the time. The urtica ferox worked by hemorrhaging the sick or weak.
Jackson wasn’t sick or weak. Okay, he might be weak since he hadn’t slept or eaten properly since his beating which had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. He had to have faith he could pull out of it, or everything he’d been able to do would have been in vain.
The amount of toxin he’d absorbed wouldn’t be much relative to the amount other people were exposing themselves to, but he had enough he would feel it.
And maybe not survive it.
Swinging the pack to his shoulder, he crossed the few feet from his truck to the front doors. He glanced around as if someone might try to approach him, but who would? There weren’t many left alive to terrorize others. Not to mention, he wasn’t in the mood. He didn’t need a gun to snap a neck.
Pushing through the double doors to the motel, Jackson searched the ratty interior with its dark vending machine and worn carpet. Was there anything he could use? He didn’t expect anyone to be there and he wasn’t wrong. He lowered his bag and moved to stand in front of the vending machine.
For once, there were offerings of drink and snacks. Not just candy either. He could get on board with that. Looking around, he sighed. No bigger objects to smash the glass with? Really? Like they thought someone was going to steal stuff.
Jackson stepped back, half-squatted, and then thrust himself forward, lifting the back leg in a front kick and impacting with his heel. The glass shattered and Jackson shook off the glass pieces. He picked his bag back up and opened the top. Removing the weapons had left him with a little room and he loaded it with pretzels, peanut butter crackers, nuts, trail mix, and as many bottles of water that he could.
He glanced at the spot on his hand as if he could see the clear ointment. There was no going back. He was trapped in a mess of his own making.
Clicking the top shut on the pack, he stood and swung it back onto his shoulder. His boot scuffed the floor as he walked. Was he getting weaker? He didn’t feel weak yet, but he wasn’t sure. The toxins would mess with him neurologically. He didn’t need that. He needed to lock himself away and just suffer through it.
Approaching the counter, he chewed on his bottom lip. The place wasn’t upscale enough to have a digital locking system in use. They would have keys, but where would they be? He rounded the counter and located the room keys hanging on small brass hooks behind the counter. Plastic blue diamond key chains dangled from each hook with a gold number for the key.
They couldn’t make things easier, could they? Well, they could have at least had the decency to stick around and help him get his bag into the room and pick up the vending machine mess.
Jackson curved his lips at his attempt at humor. Loneliness was going to be more of a problem then he’d thought. There wasn’t even a random stranger to make comments to. He didn’t have his email to talk to Cady and, he was embarrassed by the admission, but he just wanted to get to her. She could take care of him. She would, wouldn’t she?
A headache was growing in the back portion of his head. He didn’t have time to sit around wishing for things to be different. Grabbing the number three key, he didn’t waste time inspecting the hallways. He rushed to find the door with a three on it.
Being on the bottom floor was even better. If he tried jumping from the catwalk, he’d end up hurting himself and not dying which would be even worse.
One thing Jackson wouldn’t accept was failure. Even failing at suicide wasn’t an option.
Letting himself inside, Jackson slammed the door shut and locked the door knob, then the chain lock above that. He glanced around, grabbing for the nightstand sitting beside the bed. Wiggling the heavy piece across the floor, Jackson moved it into place in front of the door. He would only be able to get out, if he was strong enough to move the stand.
He turned to the room, panting from working so hard. Using his unaffected hand, he wiped at his brow. Nothing was there. Was he already hallucinating? The worst thing was that he wouldn’t know when he was hallucinating and when he wasn’t.
The room’s less than ostentatious presentation didn’t bother Jackson. He shuddered as the chill of the empty room seeped into his bones. No sunlight got into the room through the windows and it didn’t seem anyone had been inside in a while.
Since the electricity was still on, Jackson flipped on the thermostat, engaging the heater which blew even colder air for a few minutes. Jackson shuddered as he closed his eyes and waited for the heat. He had to be warm. He couldn’t focus.
Once the heat started coming out, Jackson returned to the door to double check the locks. Looking at the nightstand, he was glad to have a plan in place there. But the window would take no effort at all to get through. He shook his head and strained to push the dresser in front of the large window to block that way in or out.
He had to stay inside. No matter what.
Unplugging the TV, Jackson kicked off his boots and jeans. He shoved them under the bed and then climbed between the poplin sheets. He couldn’t get warm. Did he take a shower? No, he couldn’t remember if water exacerbated the problem or not.
Why hadn’t he researched the second phase more? He’d been so cocky in his vaccine, so confident that he wouldn’t touch the Cure or come in contact with it, that he hadn’t studied it more.
The bed faced the television set up above where the dresser had been. Staring at the blank screen, Jackson waited. There was a faint tingling in his skin where he’d made contact, but that just confirmed he’d absorbed the drug.
If he survived the attack of CJ180d Part B on his system, he’d be stronger for the next time. If… He had to change his outlook. There wouldn’t be a next time. He would survive the ointment. So, when he survived Part B, he would be stronger, but there wouldn’t be a next time.
He wouldn’t be that stupid again.
Lifting his gaze from the empty space where the dresser had been, Jackson blinked at the sudden image of Dr. Phil speaking directly to him on the screen. “If isn’t a strong way to head into the future. You need to believe, make the decision, it isn’t hard to do something when you use strong active language.” He tilted his large Texan bald head toward Jackson. He did the high arch with his eyebrows as if Jackson was looking for a father-figure.
Jackson shook his head. “You’re no
t real. I unplugged the television. I know you’re not real.” He scoffed as he shifted on the mattress. A fine sweat broke out on his skin as the tingling spread out from his hand to his shoulders. Was he hungry? Should he eat? Dr. Phil kept pulling his focus from what he should be doing. The TV personality looked him up and down in the same manner Jackson’s father used to.
“If I’m not real, then why are you talking to me?” Wrinkles appeared on the doctor’s forehead as he raised his eyebrows impossibly high. “There’s more at work here, than just hating the population. You need to look inside yourself to find peace.”
“I’m not looking for peace. I’m looking for justice.” An itching pain started along the back of his spine, spreading outward. Jackson held his breath as the pain increased.
If… no, when he survived the urtica ferox, he would know he could survive anything. Wait, had he already thought… wait… what…
He ignored Doctor Phil laughing on the screen. “It’s not looking good, Juan. It’s not looking good.”
Chapter 21
Scott
Scott shifted on his feet at the doorway to the living room. He’d been in her house so many times, he knew his way around like it was his own home – which in a way, it was now.
He didn’t want to go into the living room and interrupt the tender moment. Cady, Jason, and Bailey were huddled around Baby Jessica and talking about Stephanie, Jessica’s mother, like she was still alive. Jason told stories about what they would do at family gatherings like Fourth of July.
Jason reached up and rubbed the top of the baby’s head. “Aunt Stephanie one time told Grandma that since chocolate came from plants, it should be considered salad. Grandpa overheard and decided to give Stephanie a chocolate meal every meal time the next day. He got Grandma to agree to it. They did chocolate gravy, white chocolate potatoes, chocolate cake, chocolate pudding, they did so much chocolate.” He grinned wistfully. “Aunt Stephanie ate it, but then refused chocolate the next month. I wish I could’ve seen it. Grandpa tells… told me that story a lot.”
“I’m sorry about your grandparents, Jason. They sound like amazing people. What about your dad?” Cady’s soft voice reached Scott and he felt as if she was talking to him. He hadn’t mentioned Jason’s parents to him. Scott wasn’t sure what had happened to his brother and he didn’t want to guess. He’d avoided the topic like he was avoiding that room.
Jason reached up and pushed at his hair. “I’m not sure. I can’t figure out how to check on them. There are so many places they could be.” He ducked his head. “My mom would love her new niece.”
Sadness set in with unbeatable determination. Scott most likely wouldn’t be alive to see his niece and his nephew get any older. He wouldn’t be able to tell them even more crazy stories of their parents and all the great things their grandparents had done and been. The chocolate story was only the tip of the iceberg. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to tell them.
Cady glanced up, catching Scott in the corner of her eye. “Scott, come join us.” She patted the couch beside her and furrowed her brow. Did she suspect how he was feeling? Was that concern in her eyes because she saw how weak he was getting?
Scott couldn’t have her thinking he was less of a man. He shook his head, wishing he could tell her everything rushing through him. He cared more than he could ever tell her, more than he would have a chance to tell her. “I think I’m going to get some rest. Thank you… for everything.” Would she understand the emotion he was trying to push through his gaze? He waved limply at them.
She nodded slowly as if worried to let him leave. Jason said something, snagging Cady’s attention and she turned to him, smiling and looking back at the baby.
Using the hand railings along the left side of the wide stairs, Scott climbed each step deliberately, careful not to drag his feet. He wanted to fall to all fours and crawl the rest of the way, but he forced himself to stay on two legs and at least partially upright. He had to make it to the room.
Cady had set him up in the guest room just by her own room, at the top of the stairs. He didn’t have far to go, but the more steps he climbed, the further the top seemed. He paused halfway through the flight and stared down at his feet. Okay, one step at a time. Instead of looking up, he trained his gaze on the step in front of him, then the next, then the next.
Once he got to the top, he jerked himself forward, grabbing onto the doorjamb to use it as a support. Scott was almost there. He could sit on the bed and rest, let the past week wash away or catch up to him. He didn’t have to worry for a bit. Cady had all but given him permission to check out so he could get better.
He’d heard the worry in her voice as she’d talked to her friend on the phone. Her concern sparked even more fear in him. He closed his eyes and straightened. He could make it to the bed. He could do it. He had to have faith that everything would work out. He didn’t have any other options.
Lurching forward, he closed the door behind him and stumbled to the bedside, sinking onto the soft mattress with a weary sigh.
Sitting on the side of the bed, he hung his head. He should brush his teeth, take a shower, but he didn’t have the energy those acts would require. How was he going to get better? He needed a plan.
What would be the smartest way to approach the illness? Killing himself? Or sticking it out and hope there was a miracle?
Scott didn’t have a lot of options. He couldn’t traumatize his nephew any more than he’d already been affected – both his death and the sickness would accomplish that. Plus, he selfishly wanted to see just how much time he could get with Cady. She had feelings for him. He knew it. She’d admitted to it. He just needed more time to prove it.
If he rested, actually slept and took the time to heal, he might have a shot. There were no reports of survivors because so many people were using the Cure instead of letting themselves work through the sickness. Traditional medicine might not work.
He’d done the research on chickenpox after Cady had told him what she suspected the relationship was between the two. Maybe the essential oil helichrysum would work. Cady usually used it plus ravintsara on her shingles when she got them. She always sang their praises.
Scott would have to ask her the next morning. Really, anything else besides falling onto the pillow was more than he had the energy for.
If there was an attack on the house right then, he would be worthless. He unbuttoned his pants and lay back on the bed, wiggling out of the denim with small bursts of energy. Somehow he got his pants off and folded and resting on his boots, but he’d never be able to remember how.
If he could just get some sleep, grab some rest, he’d be better. He could fix anything with rest. Lights flashed across his vision when he closed his eyes. Maybe he’d stare at the wall a while. He climbed between the sheets, grateful for their cooling warmth. He stretched out, wincing as his joints stretched and moved.
If the pain was already working its way from his joints outward, he had to expect more pain would attack his muscles.
What exactly had he come down with?
Chapter 22
Cady
Cady tucked Jessica into the hospital-issued basinet and set the plastic portable sleeping box onto the corner of her own bed. With the large size of her bed, her room was the best option for Jessica to stay, at least for a little while longer. Cady would take the baby while she was able to and hopefully she could help Jason and Bailey learn what they needed to in all aspects of running the homestead and not just in how to take care of a baby.
Scott had left them earlier than they had been ready for bed. Jason and Bailey picked a movie from the stack against the wall after laughing over the huge selection and talking more about Jason’s family. Jason’s family was Scott’s family and Cady found herself interested in knowing more about how he was raised and grew up.
The red to his eyes had spread, creating a shadowed look to his features. Cady was worried about him. He was deteriorating fast. Cady hoped
it wasn’t evidence that the virus would eat its way through her just as fast. She couldn’t help Scott, or Jason, or Bailey, if she was incapacitated with the virus.
Washing her hands and face in the bathroom, Cady glared distractedly at the soap sitting in the small glass soap dish.
The physiology behind the virus was confusing. If it really was varicella, then there shouldn’t be such a high mortality rate. Thanks to Jackson’s second phase of the plan, there was no real way to see who had survived the illness, because most of the people had died from the ointment. Or they had died from the virus. Chickenpox was known to be harder on adults than children. In fact, children could contract chickenpox multiple times over their growing up years and be just fine.
Adults, however, had a higher chance of sterility and death, if they contracted it in their post-adolescent years.
If she’d known Rachel was back at her house, Cady would have called her at the very least. She could have warned her to stay away from the Cure. If nothing else, Cady could have gotten information from Rachel on the state of the children. Seen if they would survive it.
Looking at Beth’s children, though, S.J. was dead and she hadn’t given him the cure. He was an older teen, but he wasn’t an adult yet.
She knelt by the side of the bathtub, confused by everything that was going on. Keeping everything straight was getting hard. What did she need to help her figure out exactly what was going on and how to beat it?
Paper. And a pencil. That’s it. She could figure it out, if she could make her lists. Back downstairs, Cady peeked in the living room, smiling at the sight of Jason sleeping on one of the couch while Bailey watched the movie they’d chosen on the other. They were good kids. They wouldn’t do anything they weren’t supposed to. Cady had to learn to trust others.
180 Days and Counting... Series Box Set books 4 - 6 Page 11