Contagion
A Novel of the Living Dead
L.I. Albemont 2011
Author
All Rights Reserved
Edited by
Excellent Editions
E-mail the author at [email protected]
We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?
-Christina Rossetti
Prologue
I greet you for all the good work you're doing. Please, we at the 5th district of Aubergene, the population there is dying of hunger. We have nothing despite of everything we try. We are in the need for food, if not we going to die. Please I am waiting for you to help us. (sic)
-post from Haiti
Viruses, adaptable and deadly, are one of the most implacable enemies humankind has ever known. Continually hungry for new hosts, they lurk, hiding as toxic splinters inside our DNA, at times waiting generations for the right circumstances to emerge and ravage a world vulnerable to their cravings.
Early on a Saturday morning in February the Enriquillo-Plantain fault line that slices a straight path through the island nation of Haiti slipped, throwing buildings to the ground and creating gaping mouths in the earth that swallowed whole villages. Geologists were not surprised. The Caribbean is a seismically active area with numerous small quakes each year and they were overdue for a big one.
The instability of Haiti’s geography is reflected in its government. Since 1804 when the great general Toussaint L’Ouverture led a rebellion that culminated in the formation of the first black western republic, the country has dealt with unstable and corrupt administrations and violence and early death were commonplace. However, the devastation caused by this quake was beyond what these hardened people could endure. Early reports projected as many as 100,000 people killed (that number would more than double) and millions homeless. Tsunami warnings went out for the entire Caribbean region. The US military flew victims to hospital facilities at Guantanamo and Walter Reed and companies in the Caribbean used their corporate jets to ferry them to hospitals in the Bahamas, Miami, Aruba, and the Cayman Islands. Cruise ships sailed in to Port au Prince, dropped off medical supplies and took the injured on board for treatment. The miracle of modern travel transported wounded Haitians around the world, medical personnel volunteering their time and services.
By Sunday afternoon, news crews arrived, some with relief agencies, others on their own. Surging mobs overrun relief workers, their boxes of water trampled as the desperate fought viciously for each precious bottle. Rioting broke out in and around the capitol while the Haitian president was rumored to be in hiding. News crews vie to be first to report live from inside the country.
***
Josh Weldon, news anchor for WSNV- Channel 7, steps out into the street and looks around. “What a dump.” Tumbled shacks and broken buildings stretch in every direction. Open sewers running alongside the street emit a stench that the locals don’t seem to mind but to which the crew is having trouble adjusting.
“A little less commentary and a lot more unloading would help. Only a couple of hours left before we lose the light.” Jennifer, struggling with a mass of cables and poles, hurries her crew to set up for the broadcast when a gaggle of children flock them, exclaiming in a torrent of Creole patois as Josh hands out bottles of water. They don’t leave after they get their water but stand waiting to see what else is to be had.
“Go, shoo. I don’t have anything else. Rien. Right. I’m on it. But seriously, this place is terrible.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear but they just got hit by an earthquake. Get pretty for me Josh. Guys, let’s set up over near that hotel.” She points to a large, partially collapsed building. The Red Cross has set up a makeshift hospital tent to one side. Surrounded by banana trees and fringed leaf palms, it will give an authentic tropical feel to the broadcast. She knows they are one of the first crews in and hopes to be the first to send out live feed. She confirms the satellite link. “Josh! Get into make-up and get in place.”
Did something move inside the rubble? She looks again but sees nothing. Trees sway slightly then everything settles. She hears dismayed shouts among the survivors and Red Cross workers searching the ruins.
“Just an aftershock. Let’s get moving. We’re losing the light.” The air is sultry and soft. Darkness trembles at the edges of the leaves and colors are beginning to fade. Josh is ready and waiting for Jennifer to cue him. He reads from the prepared cards.
“Early yesterday morning the island nation of Haiti was rocked by a magnitude 7.0 earthquake. You can see beside me what was once the Paradis Hotel. Survivors tell us the desolation caused by this cataclysmic event has made familiar landmarks almost unrecognizable but they haven’t lost hope their loved ones are alive under the mounds of rubble you see here and they’re digging with bare hands to free them.”
Jennifer hears another shout from the searchers and directs the cameraman to focus on them. Crawling from under the rubble, ghostly looking, dust covered survivors stagger toward the camera crew. Some walk; others more injured, crawl forward.
Josh is ad-libbing now. “These intrepid folk are an inspiration. We can only hope this unexpected and joyous development will be repeated across this ravaged nation.”
The camera remains on the victims lurching forward, stumbling with arms out toward Red Cross workers rushing to meet them with stretchers. More continue to emerge from the ruins. Jennifer can’t believe their luck. This footage will have real kick on the news. Maybe even award winning kick. She moves in behind the cameraman to check the angle on the screen. The victims reach a smiling Josh but his expression changes as the camera swings back to him. He screams but his screams turn to choked gurgles as dust-shrouded figures pull him down, ripping out his throat, arterial blood spraying the camera lens. Viewers now see the broadcast through a mist of red droplets. Jennifer screams, “Cut, CUT!” but the crew is transfixed as raking nails and bloody, bared teeth tear the flesh from the anchor’s body. A smell of putrefaction, strong enough to make them gag, wafts toward the crew.
Jennifer turns at a sound beside her. A grinning woman in a tignon sinks broken teeth into her shoulder and rips a strip of flesh free. It burns like fire and her screaming draws other survivors who dig into her body with eager hands. A teenage boy, teeth clacking hungrily, grabs and devours her intestines while a small child, right arm crushed and dangling, jumps and grabs for her share. It is the last thing she sees as she dies.
The video now shows a succession of blurred images as the cameraman and crew run into the surrounding jungle. The audio continues to broadcast screams for some time. Horrified viewers around the world are stunned and shaken, not certain if what they just saw is real or a horrific hoax.
Minutes later, near the presidential palace, a journalist reporting live is attacked by a mob of dust covered children, their small sharp teeth more than adequate for ripping into her jugular and then tearing the flesh from her body. The whole event is broadcast before anyone thinks to cut the transmission.
That night the sound of drums filled the island.
Chapter 1
“Suppose all that had been forecast - why, no one would have believed in the truth of such a nightmare tale.”
Sir Winston Churchill
Haiti was the last thing on Virginia Dare’s mind. The Wednesday after the earthquake found her running late for work. Her daughter had changed outfits twice already and she knew if she didn’t get everyone out of the house soon she would likely change again.
“Darling, two minutes until we all have to be in the car. Shoes o
n now!” There was no response from upstairs.
“TWO!” Her son repeated happily, holding up two chubby cereal covered fingers.
“Yes my love, two. Who‘s my smart boy?” She wiped the cereal from his hands, lifted him out of the high chair, and kissed his sticky face. A plop of oatmeal landed on the front of her blouse and she dabbed at it with the dishcloth. It was going to leave a spot.
“Mom, I’m ready!” She looked down the hall. Her daughter had changed clothes again. This time into an Ariel the mermaid swimsuit and pink cowboy boots.
“You look beautiful darling.” She did actually. “But maybe we need to try something a little warmer. The boots we can work with.”
A quick change into jeans and a Spongebob sweatshirt and they were out the door. She found a parking space near the front at Time for Tots and unloaded everyone quickly. As always, she felt a guilty dismay that she had to leave her children in this concrete-floored baby holding pen. Miss Marcia had door duty this morning.
“Morning Marcia. My husband’s parents are picking Anna and Greg up around lunch time. The note’s on file already but call me if you have any questions, ok?”
“No problem. I think someone-” she nodded toward the door, “needs a little extra Mommy time this morning.”
She turned. Greg was happily absorbed with a stable of plastic horses but Anna stood near the door, small head down. Virginia knelt in front of her. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she put her arms around her mother.
“P-p-please don’t leave,” she stammered, pressing a wet, salty face against Virginia’s. Her heart breaking, like it did every time she left them, Virginia wrapped her arms around her and whispered back, “I have to baby. But you don’t have to stay all day. Remember? Grammy and Granddad are coming to take you and Greg to their house to spend a few days.” Her daughter’s arms loosened and she leaned back. “Today this day?” Virginia saw the beginning of a smile. “Yes, today this day.”
“Ok but you’re coming there to pick me up?”
“I always come to pick you up; you’re my favorite daughter.”
“Mom, I’m your only d-daughter.” The stammer they had worked on so hard always came back when she was upset.
“True, but you’re still my favorite. I have to go. I love you.”
Her drive to work wound through tree-lined streets harboring craftsman style architecture as well as a few Greek revival homes built in the 1700’s. Unfamiliar with the south, the unpretentious charm and elegance of Tunbridge Wells took her by surprise when she moved here nine years ago as a new bride. Founded almost two hundred and fifty years ago by English and Scots immigrants seeking that most elusive of old world freedoms, freedom of worship, the geographical isolation the mountains provided must have seemed ideal to them. The ice covered fountain in the town square sparkled in the morning sun. Turning into her office parking lot, she noticed traffic backed up near the entrance to East Beaumont Hospital. She made a mental note to hit the west side of town if she had time for lunch. She often didn‘t but still felt lucky to have this job. Her boss felt she was lucky too, and loaded her down with extra work at every opportunity but didn’t bother to pay overtime. With the mortgage company threatening foreclosure, a car making random, odd sounds, and children growing out of clothes every few weeks, lack of money caused some sleepless nights at the Dare household and the extra cash would have been nice.
She spent the morning preparing reports for the city criminal courts, reports that evaluated convicted felons’ eligibility for a program that deferred prison and let them keep a job. Most of the time, she felt just pushed paper but every now and then she thought she might have turned a life around. Not often though.
She reached for the newspaper, intending to check out apartments in the classifieds. Her fellow cubicle dweller across the aisle, James, rolled his chair up to her desk.
“Hey Vi, couple of homeless guys are fighting in the hospital parking lot. You can see it from my window, wanna watch?”
“No but don’t let me keep you from enjoying it.”
“One of the guys is down so it’s almost over. Mind if I borrow your paper?”
“Promise to bring it back?”
“I promise.” He took the paper and tucked it under him arm. “Back in about fifteen minutes.” He headed down the hall toward the bathroom. She called after him. “Keep it. I don‘t want it anymore!” Laughter drifted back to her. The phone rang.
“Good morning, this is Virginia.”
“Good morning to you.” She recognized the deep, baritone of Charles, the town constable. “Thought you might want to know we got your boy.”
She had a sinking feeling and thought she knew but asked anyway, “Which boy?”
“Carson. We picked him up last night for robbery and public drunk. We got him on suicide watch. Thought maybe you needed a laugh.”
“Charles, how is suicide watch funny?”
“Come over and I’ll tell you.”
She decided to get out of the office for a while. The jail was just a half block up the street and she had to get details of Carson’s arrest for her files anyway. One of her recent referrals, he had spent much of his early life in the juvenile justice system. Having turned eighteen, he had recently been “graduated” to the adult courts and she had fought for his admission to her program. A landscaping job she helped him find got him through the previous summer and fall but that type of work always slowed in winter and he had three children to support. His first was born just after his sixteenth birthday when he married his eighteen-year-old baby mama. They quickly had two more during an off again/on again relationship. Amazingly, he paid his child support when he wasn’t in jail and considered himself a model father. To her secret amusement he often offered Virginia parenting advice during his weekly required office visit.
She grabbed her coat and gloves, put her laptop in her briefcase, and wincing at the cold, walked up the street. The day, which had dawned clear, was clouding over. She stopped outside the dome roofed courthouse, briefly taking in the view of the encircling mountains. As she walked through the marbled lobby, the bailiff winked at her and she skipped the “wanding” checkpoint, walked under the vintage 1840’s lead crystal chandelier and took the stairs up to the fourth floor. Here, the floors were institutional speckled tile, the walls painted government gray, and the lighting was strictly unflattering fluorescent. She stopped at the bulky, locked metal door leading into the cells and buzzed the intercom.
“Hey guys, it’s Virginia.”
“HELLO gorgeous, come on in!”
The door unlocked with a loud thunk and she walked down the narrow hallway to the constable’s office. She caught a strong whiff of disinfectant mixed with greasy food. Charles and Gareth, one of his deputies, reclined in their desk chairs, feet up.
“Hi you two, how’s it going?”
“Much better now that you’re here.”
Charles reached for his mouse, clicking until he found what he was looking for. She heard the printer start in the hallway. “I’m printing Mr. Culpeper’s arrest report for you. It’s the most entertaining report we’ve had this year.”
“Thanks, I’ll need it for his file. Can I see him now?”
“Let me give you a little background first.” He closed the office door. “Early yesterday afternoon, Mr. Culpeper stopped in at the Grab-n–Go and walked out with two six packs of beer, giving the security camera the one finger salute as he left. The clerk called it in and we recognized him from the description. Patrols were notified and Gareth and Kincaid found him yesterday evening in the parking lot of the Laundromat over behind the old GM dealership. He failed field sobriety tests so the boys brought him in and booked him. Then it got interesting. Mr. Culpeper, whose breath alcohol was twice the legal limit, reported the presence of cannibals in the hills up near Chapel Croft.”
“Cannibals.”
“Oh yes. He’ll probably be glad to give you details.”
“Ok, but why is he on su
icide watch?”
“Now we get to the funny part. Last night, Mr. Culpeper, after undressing, climbed on to the top bunk in his cell, wrapped his underwear around his neck and hooked it to the wire cage around the light bulb in the ceiling. He then jumped off the bunk in an apparent attempt to hang himself.”
“Oh my gosh! Was he hurt at all?”
Charles was laughing now. “No, his tightie whities were so old and stretched out, they went all the way to the floor with him. We watched him try it three times. It didn’t look like a serious attempt Virginia. Your boy knows all the ropes. He was probably trying to get sent over to the center for an evaluation. The cells are nicer there.”
“Has the psychiatrist been in to see him yet?”
“No, the talented Dr. Robbins can’t work him in until tomorrow. Where do you want to talk to him?”
They didn’t seem too busy so she asked for an interview room. Equipped with a scratched wooden table and two plastic chairs, the room still smelled of old cigarette smoke despite a ban on smoking in public buildings dating back over a year. Carson shuffled in wearing the usual orange jumpsuit, sans underwear she guessed. His already pale blue eyes seemed faded and he looked sick as he took a seat. He glanced up at her but didn’t speak.
“Why Carson? I can’t even begin to tell you how stupid this is. I know you haven’t missed an AA meeting and your sponsor said he could tell you were serious this time. I personally told the judge that he’d be glad he had taken a chance on you. Do you think I’ll go to bat for you after this? Because I won’t.”
He put his hands over his face then lowered them. “I saw something Virginia. I still see it when I close my eyes. I thought getting drunk would take the edge off. It didn’t.” His hands shook and he tried to steady them on the table. He swallowed a few times and resumed speaking.
The Living Dead (Book 1): Contagion Page 1