Rise & Walk (Book 2): Pathogen

by Gregory Solis

  Veronica smirked while wondering what a Tinker’s Damn might be worth. Margaret pointed towards the mansion.

  “That was Arthur Richardson’s home. It’s so beautiful inside; like a palace. I’ve been there three times. Every Boxing day; that’s the day after Christmas, Mr. Richardson would host a dinner for some of his employees.” She looked to Veronica with sad eyes, “When he passed, God rest his soul, the son, Gavin, stopped the tradition.”

  Margaret turned away and finished, “Such a selfish and sick boy he was.”

  Veronica nodded unsure of what to say.

  Tony bounded from the kitchen door into the garage and over to the truck, catching Veronica’s attention. He came to the side of the truck and offered his hand to Nikki, helping her down. He opened Veronica’s door and spoke.

  “Its clear, but I think we should keep the curtains shut upstairs. The whole town could see the lights up here.”

  “Looks like we can go in now.” Veronica said to Margaret as she scooted over. Tony held the door open and offered Veronica his hand. She squeezed his palm and gritted her teeth as she moved her legs off the seat and stretched them to the ground.

  “Still hurt?” Tony asked. Her expression and heavy sigh said it all.

  “There’s a master bedroom on the second floor that you might want to check out for the nice lady.” Tony whispered as Veronica found her footing.

  After the longest walk that Margaret had taken in what must have been the past decade, not to mention the most frightening, the last thing she wanted to do was climb a staircase. Veronica was doing her best to help her ascend the steps but Margaret suspected that the climb was no picnic for the injured young lady. Leaning on each other they made it to the top and continued towards a bedroom to the left. She heard Veronica’s labored breath.

  “Aren’t we a pair?” Margaret said as they slowly worked their way into the master bedroom. The room was dimly lit by two small lamps built into the wall on each side of a fireplace. Veronica brought the woman to the four poster bed. Margaret steadied herself with her hand on a post as Veronica moved away.

  “If we keep the curtains shut, we should be able to turn up the lights a bit.” Veronica said.

  Margaret moved towards the sliding glass door next to the fireplace with a slow deliberate pace.

  “Ma’am?” Veronica asked.

  “I’m alright. I couldn’t read by this light but I can see, and I want to have a look at my town.” Margaret said and stood at the window.

  “Okay, I’m going to use the restroom, just let me know if you need anything.” Veronica said and entered the bathroom to the right leaving the old woman to her thoughts.

  My lord, Margaret thought as she looked out over the only place she’d ever called home. The smoky roof of Whisper General Hospital loomed out of the darkness. Only the top floor of its five stories seemed damaged by fire. She recognized the single ornate spire of Saint Michael’s church next door. As a young girl, she had attended the dedication ceremony for that building back when it was the tallest sight in town. She was married underneath that once great spire, and later laid her son and husband to rest in its yard. She took some small comfort that she could see the resting place of her loved ones even from this distance. The church held other comforts for her. When no one was left to care for her, members of the congregation adopted Margaret. They visited, prayed with her, and saw that she was fed. She appreciated the care, even though she sometimes wondered if their charity was motivated by the hopes that she would name the church as benefactor in her will. She might as well have left them her house. She might have starved without the meals-on-wheels provided by the congregation. The only thing she resented about her meals was that her doctor had seen to it that she was given only the blandest of “Heart-healthy” diets. Her doctor had warned her about sodium, cholesterol, and fat, but such a strict diet left little pleasure in life. As the silent clouds rolled in the distance, Margaret wondered what use it was to give up enjoying such a simple pleasure as tasty food just to live longer. What did more years of life mean if they were spent without flavor? Perhaps it would have been better that she never listened to her doctor and not lived to see these difficult times.

  “Excuse me ma’am” Tony said gently to let her know that he had entered the room. The last thing he wanted was to startle the nice lady.

  “Just having a look around,” he said as he directed his red flashlight around the room. Opening the drawer on the nightstand, he suppressed a laugh at the discovery of a small vibrator. Nudging the sex toy aside with his flashlight he saw a small bottle of Vicodin prescribed to a Wanda Clairmont. Both are good for cramps, he supposed as he took the bottle. He lifted the mattress and found nothing. Swinging around to the other side, he slid his arms underneath and bumped into something hard; something metal. Lifting the mattress he found a pistol and separate magazine. It was a Colt, .45 Caliber semi-automatic. The gun was empty but the separate magazine held seven bullets. Tony locked the slide open and checked to see that the chamber was clear. He closed the slide and loaded the clip. Tony smiled. The bathroom door opened.

  “Find something good?” asked Veronica.

  “He must’ve. He’s grinning like a cat with a bellyful of canary,” added Margaret. Tony displayed the gun. Margaret turned away to look outside. Tony approached Veronica and offered her the pills.

  “Here, it’s Vicodin; might help with your Boo-boo”

  “Boo-boo?” she smirked as she accepted the bottle.

  “There has to be more ammo here somewhere.” Tony said and moved to the other end of the large bedroom to search a walk-in closet. He pulled out a tripod with a digital video camera attached.

  “Gosh,” Tony said, “A Camcorder in the bedroom. I wonder what that’s for.” Veronica shook her head.

  Tony set the camera aside while searching deeper amongst the hanging clothes. Veronica joined Margaret at the window and looked outside.

  “I don’t like those damn things” Margaret whispered.

  “Guns?” Veronica asked joining her.

  “Ugly things. They give bad people power to take good people away from us.” Margaret said.

  “Guns are a necessity now, to keep us safe.” Veronica urged while looking at the large pair of scissors still clutched in the old woman’s hands. Margaret nodded and offered a contrived smile of agreement.

  “Will you be staying up here too?” She asked changing the subject. Veronica looked at the large California King-sized bed.

  “Sure; if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. There’s plenty of room and frankly, I don’t want to be alone.” She looked up at Veronica, “It’s been an awful day.”

  The old woman frowned looking out the window. She wondered about the townsfolk of Whisper. How many of her neighbors were still out there afraid and alone like she was?

  Ten

  Over a quarter of the population of Whisper California had made their escape in the prior days. A small portion of those who remained found refuge within the designated emergency areas such as the high school and ammunition plant. Others were still hiding in their homes and in scattered pockets throughout the town. All these survivors combined made up less then a tenth of the number of dead that had now become the majority in Whisper. Those that still lived were outnumbered and doing all they could to survive.

  In a housing development made up of five large cul-de-sacs that the locals had come to incorrectly nick-name ‘the Octopus,’ a small group of remaining residents had fortified their neighborhood rather then evacuate. The inlet to the large roundabout that fed the octopus was blocked off with a hastily erected fence made from materials torn from the yards of nearby houses. The haphazard but strong barrier was guarded on a constant rotation so each resident could spend time reinforcing their own homes. Men armed with hunting rifles and shotguns stood guard on the roofs of houses at each end of the fence. In the center a guard manned a post from atop an Ice Cream truck; the tallest vehicle at hand. Th
e houses of neighbors who had fled were ransacked for groceries and any medical supplies. Each remaining neighbor had agreed to only take necessary food items and to not disrespect the home. They did, and a decent sized stockpile was stored for their use. The remaining residents of the Octopus were made from eleven families; ten men, thirteen women, five boys and six girls. Their preparations were successful. When an undead neighbor approached the fence, they were brought down by a rifle shot as far away as possible. One shot only, in the hopes of not drawing more dead to the noise. If they missed, they waited until it got all the way to the fence and another shot was fired, destroying the thing. For the time being and as long as their food and ammunition held out, the residents of the octopus were doing pretty well.

  *****

  Before the hospital fell to infection, Electrical Engineer Malcolm Taylor had just returned from the night shift at the Whisper Power and Water plant located deep within the Whisper Lake Dam. Exhausted from his evening of toil, he flopped down into his recliner, without changing out of his work clothes and napped until afternoon. He was looking forward to the first football game of the summer. Sure it was only an exhibition game, but it was pro football and he wanted to see how the new draft picks were shaping up. He awoke with the television on, the volume low, in his den made dark from heavy drapes over the windows. The television illuminated the room as his eyes fluttered open and focused on the flickering image. Instead of Kick-off, Malcolm saw a man in a fireman’s coat being restrained by two San Francisco police officers in riot gear. The Fireman raged mindlessly and gnashed bloody teeth at the officers. Underneath the image a headline read, ‘Game Cancelled.’

  Confused yet intrigued, Malcolm pulled the lever of his recliner and sat up as the foot rest retracted into the seat. He stretched and continued to watch the news report. The audio spoke of random acts of violence being committed by ordinary people without provocation. They advised the public to avoid anyone who is acting strange or appears sick. Malcolm suddenly felt glad to live in an obscure little town in a far corner of the state and not in a big city like San Francisco where he might end up like that Fireman. That poor bastard had a rough night, he thought. Suddenly the phone rang.

  Malcolm recognized the automated call from the city informing the citizens to seek shelter in their designated areas. Some would go to the high school, others would report to the plant, and a few essential personnel such as himself would report to the Dam to make sure the lights stayed on and the water kept pumping. Family members were also welcome in such a case but Malcolm was unmarried. He wanted children one day but at thirty five, still hadn’t made it a priority. Hanging up the phone he couldn’t help but wonder if the city emergency had something to do with the violence on his television. In a way he was glad to be without attachments at this moment. He slipped into his shoes and left his home.

  Driving along Vann Blvd., Malcolm flinched in his seat as an explosion erupted from the top floor of Whisper General Hospital. Looking out his window, he saw dark smoke reach upwards from the building. He swung his work truck to the left and turned on to a street parallel to the hospital knowing that if the explosion was a transformer, he’d be sent to check it out. Better have a look while I am here, he thought knowing that the hospital was on their priority list. He pulled up in front of the emergency room and looked upwards through his open window. Five stories up, he saw orange flames begin to lick upward underneath a black cloud. The automated doors next to Malcolm opened and a figure approached. He moved his gearshift into reverse but waited to engage the clutch.

  “Better call Nine-one-one,” he said to the unknown shape in his peripheral vision.

  The figure, a man in a bloody doctor’s coat, lunged at Malcolm and reached into the truck’s cab, seizing his head. He screamed as the aggressive stranger bit into the unshaven skin at the bottom of his left cheek. Malcolm slammed on the gas and dropped his clutch as the truck squealed backwards, throwing the reanimated corpse of Doctor Osteen into a spin, leaving him whirling to the cement.

  “Holy Shit!” Malcolm hollered as he whipped his work truck around and switched gears, throwing the truck forward. He grasped a pile of napkins left over from many drive-through lunches and held them to his cheek to stop the bleeding. He dodged another car, swung around it into the oncoming lane and floored the truck towards the edge of town. His wound ached and stung with the pressure of the napkins. As the burning roof of the hospital shrunk in the distance of his rear-view mirror, he tried to get a hold of himself. He knew there were plenty of first-aid and emergency supplies at the dam incase of a lock down; that was all part of their emergency procedure. As he calmed down he slowed to a safer speed. The wind through his open window felt good on his sweaty face as he started to feel a little feverish.

  By the time Malcolm Taylor reached the parking lot at the top of the Dam, he was almost overcome with fever. He fought through his blurry vision and parked the truck. He huffed heavily with each breath and gave up trying to hold the napkins to his face, letting them fall, heavy now with matted blood, to the floorboard. He opened his door and slipped upon exiting, falling on the gravel covered dirt and rolling some distance down the road; his lifeless body made no effort to stop his fall. His inertia bled out as he came to rest outside the parking lot gate on Overlook road. His wounded cheek was caked with dirt and bits of gravel as he choked and gasped one final time.

  *****

  Annie White had served as the emergency services radio dispatcher for about eight years. From her back office in the police station she had activated the automated emergency message system and contacted the community organizers who would be responsible for opening the shelters. Annie coordinated with the local fire department and auxiliary to address the emergency calls that came in. As Sunday progressed, less and less of the town’s emergency personnel returned her hails on the radio. The last she heard from the town’s main fire engine was that there was an explosion on one of the top floors of the hospital and that they were responding. After four in the afternoon on Sunday, no one answered her calls.

  Annie had switched her multi-band communications system over to the Sierra County Sheriff’s frequency and after a few tries was able to get a hold of Sheriff Owen Clyburn.

  “Thank God, someone’s out there!” Annie said.

  “What’s your situation there?” The sheriff asked quickly.

  “Trouble, Sheriff; all kinds of bad.” She said.

  “Patch me through to Chief Murdoch.” She could tell from the broadcast that the Sheriff was driving.

  “I haven’t heard from the Chief since he led our squad to the lake. There was an incident there hours ago.” She said.

  “Like on T.V.?” The Sheriff asked.

  “I think so. I’m worried Sheriff.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “No sir.” Annie felt her heart race, “I’m not a sworn officer.”

  “Damn it!” the Sheriff’s car sounded as if it pulled over.

  “Annie, listen. My deputies and I are coordinating with the Highway Patrol and heading south to some trouble. I can’t divert to Whisper unless ordered.”

  “Who can order you?” She asked.

  “That’s unclear right now.” He cursed and spoke again, “Annie, raise your right hand.”

  “Okay.” She said too afraid to raise her hand but still aware that over a radio he would have to take her word for it.

  “Repeat after me; I swear to support and defend the constitution and enforce the laws of the United States of America to the best of my abilities.”

  She repeated the oath into the microphone.

  “So help you God.” Said the Sheriff.

  Annie repeated the ending on the air.

  “You’re sworn in my department now. Get some trusted locals, maybe some of the guards at the plant and swear them in just the same and make them your deputies. Do what ya gotta do to keep your people safe.” He said and started his cruiser back up.

  “Affirmative.” She h
esitated and set the microphone down so that she could throw up in the dustbin.

  “I gotta go Annie; good luck to you.” The Sheriff ended his transmission. Her head down, dry heaving a chest full of tattered nerves, Annie White wondered what the hell she was going to do.

  *****

  Seventeen year old Janet Tate slept through most of Sunday. She had woken in the afternoon after staying up late the night before listening to classic Hip-hop tunes by the now defunct rap group ‘Fat Laces.’ She must’ve listened to their classic ballad, ‘Life Goes On’ five or six times, mesmerized by Jordan Paul’s teen idol voice. It didn’t matter that the recording was made almost twenty years ago. J.P. was her age when he sang that tune and across the years, was still able to inspire young girls. After waking at such a late hour she found it strange that her parents were still at church. As she went about the kitchen, pouring a bowl of cereal, sniffing the milk beforehand to make sure it hadn’t gone over, and turning on the television she was nagged by a vague memory about her telephone. She recalled that the phone had been ringing, upsetting the last hours of her slumber. Her sleep deprived mind wondered for only the briefest of moments why her parents hadn’t answered. She remembered that in an almost robotic gesture, her half-conscious mind reached over to her nightstand, took the phone off the hook and disconnected the handset to prevent further calls, then dropped it on the floor.

  Janet left her cereal on the table and went to reconnect her phone. Perhaps it was her parents who had called. She should try their cell phone and see if they were broken down on the side of the road. As soon as the handset was back on the cradle, she was startled by a ring. She answered and heard a recorded voice announce that an emergency alert had been issued and all residents should report to their designated areas. It was then that the broadcast on the television registered in her mind. She turned slowly and saw the bizarre images of violence in San Francisco from the night before. Panicked, Janet dialed her Mother’s cell phone. There was no answer. Without thinking, Janet ran to her neighbor’s apartment two doors over and stopped cold as her bare feet splashed through a puddle. But there had been no rains lately; this was the middle of summer. The liquid was thick, viscous, and sucked at her feet pulling them down to the concrete walkway. She screamed as she saw the dark crimson smears and recognized that she had tramped through blood. Her neighbor’s door was half-open and a shape she didn’t recognize moved within. The shape approached out of the darkness and grunted. Janet ran back to her apartment, leaving a trail of blood red footprints on the walkway. She locked her door in a panic. Disgusted by the slimy blood on her bare feet, she showered in her night shirt and shorts until the wash water down her drain no longer ran red. A day and a half later, the milk in her untouched cereal had spoiled and she lay in bed dehydrated from crying, the sound of the television news only adding to her terror. In her exhausted mind, a song began to play; first the melody then the beat, that unmistakable bass line, then the refrain; Life goes on. With great effort and greater courage Janet got out of bed to have some water and consider her situation.