by Paul Seiple
Am I Dead?
The Great Dying Series (Book 2)
Paul Seiple
Dangerhouse Media
Contents
Quote
Introduction
Phase IV
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Phase V
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Phase VI
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Free Books
The Great Dying Series
“Think of yourself as dead. You have lived your life. Now, takes what’s left and live it properly. What doesn’t transmit light creates its own darkness.”
-Marcus Aurelius
Introduction
A little over six months ago, a small town in North Carolina named Black Dog ceased to exist. The incident was presented to the media as a fertilizer plant explosion. The truth was much scarier.
ARMA, a secret, privately funded technology company, created a virus, Judas, for the purpose of marketing another product labeled “The End of War.” It was a smart bomb, no bigger than a lapel pin, aptly named the Judas Kiss. Head of ARMA, Tom Hendricks, chose Black Dog as a testing ground for the new weapon. The plan was to infect a small group of residents in Black Dog and unleash the bomb, which held pinpoint accuracy and eliminated the threat innocent casualties. Hendricks’s pitch was that the bomb would eradicate the virus and it would never spread from the small town.
The bomb worked as advertised. The problem was not enough respect was given to the intelligence of the manmade virus and its unwavering will to survive. Judas evolved and escaped Black Dog with one purpose——survival. And to do so, it needed to evolve and replicate.
The world didn’t see the monster coming. The survival of Judas meant the end of mankind. The only people who knew the inner workings of the virus were missing, presumed dead. The task of saving the world would rest on the shoulders of newly appointed surgeon general, Dr. Quincy Warren. He had no idea what he was about to encounter.
Phase IV
Sustained Human-to-Human Transmission
An inefficient virus kills its host. A clever virus stays with it.
-James Lovelock
One
"No warrants. No record. Not even a speeding ticket. Car’s registered to Matthew Broome." The female voice cut in and out between static on the radio, leaving uncertainty in her words.
"Did you say Broome?"
The female voice sputtered back, "Matthew Broome."
"That's D.A. Broome," the officer behind the wheel said.
"Should we pull him?"
"What's he doing, about fifteen in a twenty-five?"
"About ten actually."
"Probably texting or playing that new game everyone's talking about. Either way, it's against the la…"
The officer riding shotgun’s words were silenced when the Mercedes C300 swerved to the left and jerked back in front of the police cruiser.
"Or drunk," the officer driving said. Hesitation disappeared. He flipped the switch, sending flashes of blue and red lights toward the white car.
The Mercedes swerved to the left again. This time, there was no attempt to correct the steering. The car veered off the shoulder of the road and down a four-foot embankment, coming to a stop against the base of an oak tree.
"Officer Anderson requesting MEDIC at Back Creek Road."
The officer driving pulled the police cruiser to a stop, blocking the lanes on the two-lane road just before a blindside curve. At seven A.M., there wasn't much traffic on the country road. The accident happened near a wooded area where there were no houses, only trees on both sides of the road. The blue and red lights ricocheted off the bark, creating a strobe effect as the officers exited the vehicle.
"You OK, Mr. Broome?" Officer Joseph said, easing up to the Mercedes.
There was no answer.
Officer Anderson crept around the front of the police cruiser. His revolver wasn’t drawn, but his fingertips danced along the holster with a nervous twitch. The bottom of the embankment came into Anderson’s view. The driver's door of the Mercedes was open.
"Mr. Broome, are you hurt?" Officer Joseph asked, joining his partner at the edge of the embankment.
Matthew Broome stumbled from the car and fell face first against a mound of dirt. He placed the palms of his hands on the ground and with a grunt forced himself to his knees.
"Have you been drinking, Mr. Broome?" Officer Joseph asked.
Broome answered with another grunt. He stood and faced the officers. His Thom Browne grey wool suit was caked with filth. Fresh dirt sullied the knees of his pants and a good portion of the blazer, but there were other stains——vomit and blood. Broome swayed in motion with trees as a late summer wind blew.
"Help is on the way, Mr. Broome. Why don't you stay put until MEDIC gets here?"
"We should try to help him," Officer Joseph said.
"Something's off about him. Could be an angry drunk. Could you imagine what would happen if this got out of hand? He's the district attorney. Let's wait," Officer Anderson said.
Broome started to climb the embankment. He slipped and tumbled onto his back on the first attempt but quickly regained his position and inched up the hill. He flashed a glance at the officers and exhaled hard enough to mimic a pig snorting.
"His eyes. Something's wrong with his eyes," Officer Anderson said.
A thin milky white film coated Broome's pupils. A trickle of blood appeared under his nostrils and flowed down his philtrum, the crevice above his top lip.
Officer Joseph took a step down the hill. He dug his heel into the hard ground and extended a hand to Broome.
"We should wait. He's not drunk. I think he's sick," Officer Anderson said.
Broome slapped at Officer Joseph's hand, not in a manner to push it away. It was more of an uncoordinated attempt to take hold. Officer Joseph took another step toward Broome.
"Take my hand."
Broome lunged forward. His palm planted squarely in Officer Joseph's hand. With a firm grasp, Broome jerked, sending Officer Joseph down the embankment head first. Office Anderson drew his gun. It was too late. Broome grabbed the back of Officer Joseph's head, snapped it to the side, and sank his teeth into the cop's face. Broome shook from side-to-side like a shark feasting on chum.
Shock robbed Officer Anderson of the next few seconds. Once he regained composure, Broome was headed up the hill toward him. This time, Broome wasn't staggering like a drunk. He scaled the climb with the grace of an obstacle course runner. Officer Anderson fired a round into Broome's shoulder just before he made contact. The force pushed Broome back. He stumbled on a root and tumbled down the embankment. Officer Anderson took another shot. The bullet tore through Broome's twenty-five-hundred-dollar suit and lodged in his chest. It didn't stop him. He sprang to his feet and scaled the hill faster than the time before. Officer Anderson fired again, catching Broome in his right leg. Instead of tumbling down, Broome lunged at Officer Anderson and sank his teeth into the cop's th
roat.
President Robert McClain paused the video. "Will someone please tell me just how in the hell am I supposed to explain this? High on bath salts isn't going to work this time. It was believable with those two kids in New York yesterday, but no one is going to believe the district attorney of Charlotte, North Carolina got high and bit the faces off two police officers."
"The answer is simple, Bob. We don't explain it," James Turner, director of the FBI, said. "The public is not ready for this."
"No one is ready for this," President McClain said.
"We can handle it, Mr. President," General Gerald Dickson said. "The Army is prepared to eliminate the threat without alarming civilians."
A sudden burst of laughter reverberated through the room. Dr. Quincey Warren stood up, walked to the television, and pointed at the image paused on the screen. "Three days ago, Matthew Broome tried one of the biggest cases of the year in North Carolina. This morning, he ate those cops like it was the last day of the McRib until next year."
"I didn't ask you here to provide stand-up, Dr. Warren. This is a very serious matter," President McClain said.
"I'm not making light of it. This is possibly the most serious threat to mankind ever. General Dickson, with all due respect, the world's military forces could come together and that still would not be enough. You're not fighting terrorists. You're fighting a parasite. Something that cannot be seen by the naked eye. Something, probably viral, that I'm afraid there is no cure for."
"And what makes you think this, doctor?" General Dickson asked.
Dr. Quincey, Q for short, Warren was one of the leading virologists in the world, and the recently appointed surgeon general. He didn't fit the image of doctor. Q looked more like a fill-in for a young Bob Weir with shoulder-length brown hair and a matching corduroy blazer. He was new to the job, but had no issues speaking his mind.
"Well, for one…I'm the surgeon general. It's not a coincidence that Gallows was forced to retire and the leading virologist, since the disappearance of James Jones, was appointed. None of you like me, and quite frankly, I don't really care for you either. It seems I'm here out of necessity and not because we're old chums."
"Dr. Jones died in a helicopter crash," General Dickson said. “He didn’t disappear. Don’t make it sound like a conspiracy theory.”
"OK, he died in a helicopter crash along with several of my colleagues, including my fiancée."
"I’m truly sorry about Dr. Swann," President McClain said.
Q ignored the president's condolences. "And secondly, just before the crash, an entire town in North Carolina was wiped off the map."
"A direct result of a fertilizer plant explosion," General Dickson said. The hint of defiance in his tone didn't mask the lie.
"Sure it did. Look, I'm only here for two reasons——to find out what happened to Carolyn and to make sure human flesh doesn't become an American delicacy." Q took the remote from the president and rewound the video. He started it just as Officer Anderson shot Matthew Broome the second time. "The bullet pierced his heart. That should have been the end of it. Instead, Broome climbed the embankment and tore the cop's throat out. I do not care what drugs you're on, that's a kill shot." Q paused the video. "We are dealing with something we've never seen before. This is going to sound batshit crazy, but I believe Broome was dead when he stumbled out of that car."
"Impossible," General Dickson said. "Do you hear yourself? You're suggesting that man is a zombie."
"I'm not suggesting that. I'm telling you that is what is happening. The kids in New York. Broome. People don't wake up one morning and decide to chew someone's face off," Q said. He handed the remote to the president. “I'm willing to bet the origin of this is Black Dog, North Carolina."
"A fertilizer plant…"
The president interrupted General Dickson. "Wait a minute, Gerald. If this is as bad as Q is saying, he needs to know the entire story to fix this."
"It's sensitive compartmented information," FBI Director Turner said.
"I know it's top secret. Our country is at war with an unknown enemy. Tell him," President McClain said.
FBI Director Turner sat silent.
"Tell him."
General Dickson spoke up. "Six months ago, a privately funded agency named ARMA was working on several military advancements that were supposed to change the mechanics of war. Without knowledge of the United States Government, ARMA tested the advancements…"
"You mean weapons," Q said.
"The advancements were tested in Black Dog without our knowledge."
"What were these weapons?" Q asked.
"There was only one," FBI Director Turner said. "It was biological. It spread through the entire town. We had to eradicate the threat."
"You wiped out a town of American citizens?" Q asked in disbelief.
"We contained the threat," General Turner said.
"Really? Where is Matthew Broome? Did you contain him?"
"We have men in Charlotte searching for him," FBI Director Turner said.
"That's good. I'm sure he will turn up looking for a toothpick to pry someone's flesh from between his teeth. What's the agent ARMA released in Black Dog?"
"We are not sure. After the incident, fire destroyed the ARMA headquarters in Helena," General Turner said.
"That's convenient," Q said.
"Now you know. What can we do to stop this?" President McClain asked.
"The only thing I know is this ARMA tried to play God. It backfired, and now an entire town is gone. Was Carolyn in Black Dog?"
"The chopper crashed on the way. She never made it," FBI Director Turner said.
"Q, what can we do? This is close to being out of control," President McClain said.
Q laughed. "I'm pretty sure the residents of Black Dog would say it's already out of control. That is, if they weren't dead."
"Q," President McClain said.
"I have to go to Black Dog," Q said.
"That's not happening," General Dickson said.
"Look, you have no idea what this is. The answers are in Black Dog."
Q figured he could identify the make-up of the agent from the bodies of the infected. He didn't believe Carolyn died in a crash. After dealing with Turner, Dickinson, and McClain, he didn't believe anything they said. Getting into Black Dog would provide answers.
"Gerald, get a team together to go with Q to Black Dog," President McClain said.
"The area is restricted. No one is allowed in," FBI Director Turner said.
What are you hiding? Q thought.
President McClain ignored Turner. "Can you have a team ready by the morning, Gerald?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right, Q. You're getting what you want. Now go fix this," President McClain said.
Only slightly satisfied, Q stood to leave. That was too easy, he thought. Part of him felt he was being led into a trap. There was a good chance he would suffer the same fate as the residents of Black Dog. But he knew the government needed him. Whatever this agent was, it didn't stay in Black Dog. Q was the best shot the United States had at defeating it.
"Meet me at 0700 hours at Walter Reed," General Dickson said.
Q tipped his head. "I'll leave you to your secrets now."
General Dickson waited for the door to close. "What the hell are you doing, Bob? You know if he goes to that town, he'll figure out the truth. We didn't torch it."
"That's something we are going to have to deal with now. Our country’s safety is in jeopardy. That’s more important." President McClain turned to FBI Director Turner. "I thought you said that little miracle bomb eradicated the virus. It's not contained."
"Tom Hendricks assured me the bombs would eliminate the threat if the need arose," FBI Director Turner said.
"Tom Hendricks was a liar. You should have never gone to bed with him, James," General Dickson said.
"What's done is done. I'm sure you can make this go away once we have it under control, James," President McClain sa
id.
"I'm already keeping tabs on Q. Once he fixes this, he'll be silenced," FBI Director Turner said.
"And what are we going to do about Charlotte?" President McClain asked.
"I've scheduled a series of pipe bombs for this afternoon in New Jersey if news of this hits the media. My team has determined that between two and three P.M. is the best time to ensure minimal casualties, and the probability of fatalities is less than fifteen percent," FBI Director Turner said.
"You know I don't like doing this," President McClain said.
"It's a necessary evil, Bob. If the information on the virus leaked, it would cause mass chaos among the public. Sometimes we must do these things for the greater good of the nation," FBI Director Turner said.
"This makes us no better than Hendricks," President McClain said.
"The difference is we are saving people. Hendricks held no value on human life. Once the bombs go off, it will bury any news of the incident in Charlotte. Fortunately, no one was around when the incident occurred. It's simply a case of a driver falling asleep at the wheel. Matthew Broome is the one reason it could be national newsworthy if it leaks," FBI Director Turner said.
"Where is Broome?" President McClain asked.
"Anderson's body camera has him heading into the woods dragging Anderson. He destroyed the camera, but I'm confident he's still in the woods," FBI Director Turner said.