Sympatico Syndrome Trilogy Box Set

by McDonald, M. P.

  That was all she found in the room so she headed down the hall to the next room. This time, it only took her a couple of tries to pop the lock and the room, other than a faint stale scent, didn’t assault her with the smell of death. “Hello?”

  Nothing. She entered and found the room unoccupied. Wanting to shriek for joy, she darted to the fridge and laughed aloud. Everything was there. She cleaned it out. Every bottle of alcohol, every candy bar and a package of M&Ms found their way into her bag.

  Buoyed by the find, she ran into the hallway hoping to find another empty room, but she couldn’t get the door open. Her license opened the latch, but the occupants had used the heavy chain. From the lack of response inside, she guessed they were dead.

  Elly only had one more room to try on her side of the floor. She wedged the license in the door, and it popped open like the others had. This entrance wasn’t secured with the chain, so she crept in as she had the previous two rooms, only to come face to face with a woman. When she spotted Elly, instead of being alarmed, she grinned.

  “Come on in! I was just about to have a drink! Want one?”

  Elly hesitated. “Um, sorry. I guess I have the wrong room.” She tried to pass off breaking into the room as a mistake. The woman waved off the apology.

  “No worries. Things have been crazy, am I right? I just feel so good to have survived the apocalypse that I was going to celebrate with a drink or two. Screw the hotel and their minibar rates. Just let them try to make me pay.” She laughed and waved for Elly to come in, not even commenting on Elly’s unusual attire.

  “I should be getting back to my room. Enjoy your drink.”

  “Hey, don’t leave me here to drink alone.” The woman’s smile faded, and an angry gleam came to her eye. “Get in here.”

  Elly turned and bolted for her room. Dashing inside and slamming the door an instant before the woman pounded on it. Sliding the chain into place, Elly leaned her forehead against the wood, she gasped in relief. It took a moment, but with a groan, she realized she still wore all of her now contaminated gear. “Shit!”

  At least she hadn’t gone beyond leaning on the door. She’d left her wipes by the door and so used them to wipe all the surfaces she had touched, then wiped off her shoes, taking them off and setting them in the corner behind the door. She still considered them contaminated, but she didn’t think she’d be able to sleep with them in the room and not wiped down.

  Next, she wiped down the bag and all the contents, tossing them onto the bed to keep them from coming into contact with anything near the door. An orange rolled off the bed, but that wasn’t a big deal. The bottles, she had to set as far away as possible, not risking the glass breaking on her bed and losing the contents. Even beer had precious calories.

  When the food was decontaminated, she removed her robe, hanging it on the hook on the back of the door, the contaminated side facing the hallway. She would be able to just slide her arms into it without touching it next time she wore it.

  Pounding on the door made her jump away from the door.

  “Hey, bitch! Are you too good to have a drink with me? What’s your problem?”

  Elly called out, “I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I think I might be coming down with something.”

  “You’re sick? You got that disease? Ew! Stay away from me! You better not have contaminated me, you dirty slut!”

  Elly’s eyes widened. Where had that insult come from? She would have smiled if the circumstances hadn’t been so dangerous. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a date. The accusation would have been hilarious on any other day.

  A door slammed down the hall, and Elly sagged in relief. She was almost certain the woman was showing symptoms of the syndrome.

  The power flickered again, but didn’t go off, and so she took the orange into the bathroom and washed it to be on the safe side. Then she peeled it and ate it with a handful of almonds and a few peanut M&Ms. She wanted to consume everything she’d acquired but decided to save it.

  At least her stomach wasn’t knotted in hunger, and she could think of something besides food. She couldn’t stay in the hotel much longer. She needed to leave and get out of the city without getting sick. She turned on the television, but the once slick TV news was reduced to a couple of channels showing reporters in full biohazard suits and bodies piling up in cities across the country. There was mention of other countries starting to feel the effects of the disease as well. Chicago had been in the first wave, and the local news channel showed only a test pattern. She hadn’t seen one of those in years. She switched back to the station still on the air.

  The only thing good about the news was that maybe so many people had died that she’d stand a chance of getting out without meeting anyone else.

  Elly took one more almond and chewed it while she devised a plan, such as it was. If she were home, she would have been safely ensconced in her bugout cabin. Her friends had all thought she was nuts, but working in war-torn areas, she’d come across too much suffering and starvation. She had the means to stock provisions, so why wouldn’t she?

  She wondered how Cole was doing. Was he still alive? Had he made it to a safe place?

  Elly scanned the pile of bodies the camera panned over. Out of habit, she noted the measures taken by officials—what was left of the officials, anyway. She imagined they were being decimated at a rate similar to the general population.

  She had no doubt that the higher brass would have bugged out some top secret location, their close family all safe and provided for. Elly shook her head. Had the scientists been protected too? They should have been because they were the key to finding a cure or treatment but would the bureaucrats care as long as they were safe?

  One thing puzzled her. Why hadn’t the scientists at Aislado Island created some kind of vaccine, or at least a treatment before making the disease so deadly? Of course, officially, the disease had an unknown origin, but she knew in her gut that it was manufactured. It was too deadly to have never been seen before. Diseases didn’t work like that. You could always go back and dig around and discover a few scattered cases of a mysterious disease that had only affected a handful of people at first. It had been that way with both AIDS and Ebola. Sympatico had come from nowhere. She’d been spending most of her time while holed up researching everything she could find. As long as the internet still functioned, she was going to use it to investigate what might have happened. She’d been able to connect with some other researchers in other countries, and none had ever seen anything like this, nor had come across it in research.

  Elly was certain that this was the same disease that she had investigated for the CDC and when she had first met Cole. He had been stationed at that base. He had shown her around and been the official Naval contact to the CDC—until he became ill. She remembered that vividly because she had been quarantined for three weeks on the island. It had been the three longest weeks of her life. Her supervisor had not been happy. He had worried it had all been a ploy to keep the CDC in the dark about some new biological weapon.

  When she was released from quarantine she’d learned that Cole had been ill, and that his illness had been the reason she’d been quarantined. But that never made sense to her. Three weeks? His commanding officer had informed Elly that Cole had meningitis but had recovered. Meningitis, while certainly serious, was treated with antibiotics. She should have received a dose immediately, but they never gave her anything. They just quarantined her and she learned later that several other people who had close contact with Cole had also been quarantined. Whatever he’d had, it hadn’t seemed to be too contagious.

  She had run into him when she went to retrieve some paperwork in the lab and contrary to the report she’d received on his health, he didn’t look fine at all. He’d been pale and gaunt, hardly resembling the handsome officer she had met upon her arrival on the island. However, nothing more was said about his illness. When she saw him again in Africa, he’d looked to be fully recovered, and they
hadn’t discussed it.

  Had his illness had anything to do with what was happening now? It had been several years ago, so it seemed as if there should be no connection. In fact, she had forgotten about it until now. It didn’t seem related except for the location.

  She glanced at the television, shaking her head at the sheer number of bodies, and she knew it was just the tip of the iceberg. Those were just the bodies that had been collected so far. From looking down on the streets below her hotel window, she knew thousands more were lying in streets. Too many to collect given the reduced number of people healthy or brave enough to collect them.

  At least most of the dead were ensconced in body bags, but the top layer of the pile held some that were exposed. The sight should have horrified her even more, but she was becoming numb to it, except for the children. Her eyes welled at the sight of so many small bags. This disease seemed to attack everyone equally, but the death of a child always hit her hard and to see so many in one place, made her catch her breath, unable to hold back a sob.

  If she extrapolated what was happening in Chicago to all of the other cities in the U.S. she put the death total up in the millions already, and she was sure it hadn’t even peaked yet. It wouldn’t taper off until the majority of the hosts were dead— or until it was cured.

  The only thing good about the news was with so many dead now, she stood a better chance of escaping the hotel and evading other people. But where could she go?

  15

  Hunter stared at his gas gauge, willing it to move off the red. He’d tried to find an open gas station, but luck hadn’t been with him. The main highways had all been closed to traffic, and he’d been forced to take side roads. His GPS still worked, but he’d turned it off when he had to keep making detours. It just wanted to send him back to the highway. So, now he was using a paper map, but tracing a route through the rural roads was hard to do, and he had to keep stopping to make sure he was still on the correct road. He kept the car pointing east whenever he could so he knew eventually he’d reach either Wisconsin or worst case scenario, Illinois.

  All of the detours had contributed to him making much less progress than he’d anticipated. Instead of already being in Wisconsin, he was somewhere in Minnesota unless he’d crossed into northern Iowa without realizing it. If he hadn’t screwed up a turn anywhere, he should be in Minnesota.

  On his left, there was nothing in sight but flat fields, but on his right, he saw a farmhouse about a mile away. He was wary of approaching any people, but he was down to two bottles of water, a few sticks of beef jerky and two apples. When he’d bought supplies, the boxes of granola bars and snacks had seemed plenty, but he’d also counted on being able to go through some fast food restaurants along the way.

  With no gas, he couldn’t sit in the middle of the road forever. He had a hunting knife and the bow and arrows so he wasn’t completely vulnerable, but they were no match for someone with a gun. He glanced west. The sun wouldn’t set for a few hours yet, and he didn’t want to be left out in the open with no place to seek cover. He hated leaving all of his supplies where anyone could come by and take them. He’d already passed several cars stripped of everything or worse, burned beyond recognition.

  Hunter stepped out of the car and scouted a location he could hole up for a few hours before approaching the farm yard. He knew that while the ground looked flat, it was deceptive, and so he walked into the field, heading for a small rise just beyond the front of the car. Crossing the newly sprouted rows of corn, he wondered if anyone would be around to harvest it come late summer? He took a small sip from his water bottle as the field rose even higher. From the rise, he spotted a line of brush and trees winding towards the farm. With luck, it was a creek, and he could pitch his tent there. The brush would hide him, and he could cart all of his supplies there, safe-guarding them from anyone who might come along.

  His biggest fear was someone at the farm spotting him as he moved his gear to the creek. He found a spot with thick brush, hacking some of it out of the way to create a space for his tent. He filled in gaps in the coverage with what he hacked from inside the camp site. It took him three trips to bring everything from the car to his site, and another hour to pitch the small tent. His stomach growled, and he ate a beef jerky stick, saving the other two for the morning. He selected the smaller of the two apples, leaving the last one for tomorrow, and set it on the ground beside his pack. At least he had water, and he dug out his filter and purification tablets, sending a mental thank you to his dad for telling him to get them. At the time, he’d thought it was over-kill, but now he wished he would have bought even more.

  He knelt by the stream to wash the apple and started when a fish jumped just a few feet away. Jumping up from the stream, he grabbed his pole from where he had set it beside the tent. He took the pole, a small tackle box he’d bought as well, along with a net, and put them on the stream bank, then, using his knife, dug a few worms from the ground. With his line baited, he scouted for a likely place. The creek was only about eight feet across but looked pretty deep. He caught a few more flashes of fish in the current. He hoped they were hungry. Good thing it wasn’t late summer because he had a feeling the stream would be a lot lower then. He dropped the line in a likely looking pool.

  It took a while, but as evening approached, he got a few nibbles. Then a fish stole his bait. At least they’re biting. He dropped to his knees and found another worm in the soft dirt next to the stream. It took only a few moments, and he dropped the line again.

  Something hit his line hard, and he grinned and set the hook. “Yes!” Hunter stilled, looking and listening for anyone who might have overheard him. Stupid mistake. What if someone had heard him? His mouth went dry as he strained to listen. When nothing happened after a minute, he relaxed. From now on, he’d celebrate silently. His smile returned as he reeled in a nice-sized trout. He strung it and tried for another one. The next hit was a small bluegill. As he brought it out of the water and onto the bank, he sighed. For such a little guy, it had put up quite a fight. Ordinarily, he’d never consider keeping a fish as small as this one, but he was hungry and didn’t know if he’d get another fish. In the end, he kept it and was glad he had because he had to stop when it started getting dark.

  He cleaned the two fish and set up the stove. The scent as his dinner cooked made his mouth water and he just hoped the aroma didn’t carry too far. He ate the apple while the fish cooked and peeked through his brush fence. No signs of life anywhere—not human life anyway. Plenty of birds darted through the air. High above, two hawks circled lazily in the clear sky. It had turned into a perfect spring day. Letting the brush fall back into place, he checked his fish and took a last bite of the apple, tossing the core into the stream. Instead of filling him, the apple only whet his appetite, and it was all he could do to wait for the fish to cook.

  Hunter ate the fish and swiped his plate with his first finger, licking it to get the last trace. He was no longer hungry, but he was far from full. With a sigh, he took his plate to the creek and scrubbed it with a handful of coarse grass and water. It might not be sanitary, but at least it looked clean. He shrugged and tucked it back in with the other gear.

  Before settling in to sleep, he left the protection of the creek and walked to the highest point in the field. It was nearly dark, and if anyone was around, they’d have a hard time spotting him. He just wanted to see if there were any lights visible. A highway would be great because there was bound to be a gas station near a highway entrance. Hunter turned slowly in all directions, looking for signs of people. A few lights burned in the farm-yard, but the house was dark. The hoped for glow from businesses near a highway or even a small town, were nowhere within sight. His shoulders slumped. What if everyone else was dead? He couldn’t possibly be the only survivor, could he?

  There was a barn on the far side of the house, and he wondered if any animals were in it. At the moment, the building was just a dark shadow, except for a light, probably above the
main door. It illuminated a small circle of the yard, but other than packed earth, there was nothing for him to see.

  As he stood there, the only sounds were natural—frogs, crickets, the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, and far off, a dog barking. He tilted his back, taking in the Milky Way. He’d never seen it so clearly. Granted, he’d been around too many city lights his whole life to ever see anything but the brightest stars and planets let alone the Milky Way, but was it because he was out in the middle of the country, or was it because fewer lights were polluting the night sky?

  There was no rumble of traffic, no airplanes overhead and no sirens. The airplanes he understood because one of the last news reports he’d heard had said all planes were grounded. It was a last ditch effort to stop the spread of the virus, but Hunter suspected that window of opportunity was long gone. He’d picked up enough from his dad to know a little bit about the spread of disease. He’d wondered why they were so slow to stop flights and guessed it was probably the airlines worried about backlash from customers, but now there wouldn’t be any customers.

  The silence unnerved him. It seemed like half of his drive so far had been accompanied by the shrill wail from emergency vehicles. Most of them he never actually saw, but the tones sent his heart hammering. Sirens had never bothered him before unless it was a cop car coming up behind him—then he had the normal panic thinking he was getting a ticket—but earlier in the day, the sirens’ constant droning sounded of doom and death. Now, there were no sirens, and he was missing them. At least he’d known someone was still out there trying to save lives.