Apocalyptic Fears II: Select Bestsellers: A Multi-Author Box Set

by Greg Dragon

“He’s been lost in the Alzheimer’s maze for over fifteen years.”

  “How sad.” Ava kissed his cheek and sat up. She shared enough about his father to make Louis eager to go to Atlanta.

  “Did my dad know about the microbe?”

  “He isolated it.”

  He sat up. No way. Now he had to go to Atlanta. Louis never felt close to his father, even though he had tried his entire life to emulate him.

  Ava took out her cell phone and made a call to the pilot in the company plane.

  They dressed each other, and a limo took them to the airfield where the company charter waited. Ava ordered the others to remain in Charlottesville until they returned.

  He and she boarded the jet and snoozed in each other’s arms.

  A young flight attendant woke them and handed them warm, damp towels for their faces and bottles of CloudMist mineral water.

  “Welcome to Cloudland, Alabama,” the attendant said. “You’ll never want to leave.”

  Eddie Jean

  Rainbow-hued sunlight filtered through the tree canopy, dotting the asphalt below with pastel orbs. Eddie Jean’s anxiety had faded. She was enchanted by the colorful display after a mile of dead birds getting crunched under their wheels. Nature provided beauty and balance that man needed to learn. The annual abscission of fall leaves concealed the extent of the avian kill zone—but clearly the effect centered over Cloudland. From her peripheral vision, she glimpsed two does followed by an albino fawn, racing to the woodland ahead. The trio broke from cover at a curve in the county road connecting Cloudland to Mentone.

  Scot was texting while driving.

  “Deer!” She shut her eyes, hoping there would be no more deaths today.

  Scot swerved and finished his text.

  She caught the fawn’s tail flick before they vanished into the shadowed, craggy landscape. “Did you see the albino fawn?”

  Scot grinned back exposing Chiclet-white teeth. “Too bad you didn’t shoot it.”

  “What?”

  “With your camera phone, soccer girl.”

  She laughed. Enhanced vision allowed her to see fragile etchings on rocks, veins on leaves as they floated down on the Jeep, and road signs in the distance. Eddie Jean could even tell at a glance what trees thrived and which were dying by the colors of their bark. No doubt the same was true with Scot.

  “You nervous?”

  She licked her lips. “I’ve never helped someone in front of medical people, much less a whole team of them.”

  He glanced at her and shook his head.

  His smug expression irritated her. “You wouldn’t be nervous if SEC head coaches came to see you play Friday night?”

  “Maybe a little, but I wouldn’t be licking the skin off my lips.”

  She brushed bangs from her eyes. It was a bad habit. “We’ll never get in the ICU during school hours.”

  He shrugged.

  She changed the subject. “The Hum is reaching its zenith.”

  He slowed for a stop sign and turned on his blinker. “Can’t control nature.”

  “What if the Hum is an ancient warning? A sound people used to recognize and take action? My scalp won’t stop tingling.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her before braking and turning left.

  Exasperated, she tried to explain. “You know, like the way elephants sensed the tsunami in Thailand and headed for higher ground. Haven’t you ever wondered why animals have superior senses and humans don’t?”

  “No. Man’s eardrums have changed and our nostrils have narrowed because we don’t have to warm arctic air. It’s called evolution.”

  He was being a wise butt. Her ears might be ringing, but the urge to run to the highest elevations was unnerving and unrelenting. “People should get to higher ground.”

  “Or what happens? We live between mountains. To go higher, we’d have to climb to the peak of the Appalachians.”

  A premonition loomed whenever she smelled axle grease and roses. Eddie Jean closed her eyes and relaxed in the seat. She stood on a mountain, looking in the distance, and saw an area surrounded by a lasso of violet-colored energy bands. When she glanced at a map in her hand, she read the Grand Canyon. The premonition faded, leaving her drained and sleepy.

  “Hey!” He snapped his fingers under her nose. “Still with me?”

  She slapped his hand away. “I think the Hum is an emergency signal. The pitch and frequency have picked up since it first surfaced. I have to warn people.”

  He checked his speed and slowed. “Hang on. You’re not making any sense. Weird things happen in Cloudland. You can’t announce hunches to the world. Not smart.”

  He didn’t get her reason. Since cutting class kicked her off the soccer team, she planned on making her decision worth the agony. She would warn people. “You have a one-track mind.”

  “And you don’t? Focus on one task at a time. Like, is there anything odd that happens after you’ve healed a person?”

  She wanted to discuss the Hum further but asked, “Like what?”

  “Do you pass out? Or speak in tongues?”

  She laughed at his stab at humor. “Two things. Bill has to stand, even if he’s being held up by others. Afterward, I’m dehydrated and need fluids.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” he said, and slammed on the brakes.

  “I carry a water bottle in my backpack. I never know when I’ll help someone.”

  He punched the gas pedal. “You say ‘helping’ not ‘healing?’”

  She grabbed her hair at the nape to keep from getting more tangles. “People accept help without questions.”

  “A matter of trust?”

  Didn’t every decision boil down to trust? Trust was precious and had to be nurtured, or one day it would vanish forever. Least, that’s how she saw things. “Local adults don’t trust me, but kids do.”

  “Two words—Quitman Delaney.”

  Scot tensed up like he expected an argument or denial, but she would be the last person to defend her granddad.

  “Good thing you’re half Delaney,” he said, followed by a lazy grin.

  “My talent comes from the Delaney side.”

  His jollity faded.

  Eddie Jean glimpsed the hospital looming in the distance like a white city perched on the mountain’s edge. Sunlight struck the cathedral peaks in such a way that the building blinded. Locals called it the palace. To her, hospitals may look breathtaking on the outside or even be rundown, but the same anguish occurred on the insides. How could they not be haunted?

  Eddie Jean’s phone buzzed. She pulled the cell out and read the text from her father: “Boys to afterschool care. You?”

  She texted back. “Gym workout.” She hated lying to him.

  Rett sent: “No go home without me.”

  She sent: “OK.”

  “Who texted?” Scot asked.

  “My dad. He doesn’t want me to go home until he calls.”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s affair afternoon.”

  Eddie Jean winced. Scot may not have had feelings about the situation between their parents, but she did. “Maybe if you asked him to attend your practices and games he’d stop.”

  “He’d rather get his toes licked or his…”

  She covered her ears to push the mental images out.

  Scot pulled into the fenced employee parking lot and found an empty spot on the first row. He shoved the gear shift into park and turned off the engine.

  He hit her with telepathy so fast, her head throbbed. {Wise up, our families are breaking up}

  Eddie Jean dropped her hands to her lap and looked at him. “Don’t beam your angry thoughts into my head. Telep gives me a headache and makes my nose numb. Don’t get your hopes up for Bill playing Friday night. Recovery involves rest.”

  “Telep? Why can’t you call it telepathy?”

  She shrugged.

  He sent a text message and then yanked open the center console. “I’m not stupid, EJ. If Bill suits up, we’ll get a psych
ological advantage even if he sits on the bench.” He removed an expired hospital badge with a clip attached. “Bill’s mother is a nurse here. She helped us get weekend jobs last summer. During lunch breaks, we’d pass the football in the basement hallway.”

  “Does everything revolve around football?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She leaned over and pulled up her knee socks. She’d never understood the other teen XOs. Why pretend you’re not smart when you are? Not using her talents seemed like a waste to her.

  “Don’t stop to read the directory.” He clipped the plastic badge to his collar. “Just follow me and don’t act lost.”

  “Lead the way.” Eddie Jean removed her water bottle from the backpack and followed him across the parking lot, down a lopsided sidewalk, and into a basement door near a time clock.

  There were no security guards or employees lurking as they walked into the building. The hall had angled mirrors near the ceiling in the corners, and Scot spotted two employees heading their way. He hurried to open the door to a room labeled Transport Storage. They stepped inside, closing the door behind them. She saw one empty stretcher in the corner.

  “Great.” Scot grinned and slapped his hands together. He mimed passing her a football.

  She crossed her arms on her chest. Jocks.

  He went over to a closet and slipped on a long white lab coat over his school uniform and buttoned up. Scot clipped his expired badge from the lab coat’s chest pocket and motioned her closer. “Isn’t the meat stretcher cool? Visitors freak out over corpses on elevators with the living. Now, corpses travel on the bottom shelf and no one notices.”

  Eddie Jean wrinkled her nose. “Who cleans the bottom shelf?”

  “Stretchers are cleaned daily with disinfectants. Ready to roll?”

  She staggered backward. “What?”

  “It’s the only way to get you there without being seen. Bill’s ICU is on the top floor.”

  “Eeew. No way.”

  He held up his hands. “You got a better idea? Or should I pull the fire alarm?”

  She licked her lips.

  He walked back to a closet and removed two sheets and a pillow without a pillowcase. He laid them on the lower metal surface. “You’re lying on a sheet with your head on a pillow. Better?”

  “I hate you. You wouldn’t ask Tayla to ride like a corpse.”

  He brushed hair from his eyes and said, “It’s brilliant.”

  She stepped backward, shaking her head.

  “If Bill can’t breathe, they’re not going to let us visit. Morgue stretcher grants access.”

  “No.”

  “Once Bill’s on the ventilator your job gets harder.”

  Feeling spooked, she decided to cooperate. She handed him the water bottle, and he slid it into his lab coat pocket. He helped her get on the lower metal shelf while keeping her skirt tucked tight around her legs. Scot covered the stretcher top with a long sheet that blocked her from view. Seconds later, he pushed her out the door and to the back elevator. She heard staff talking about the lunch menu. Something disgusting threatened to drop from the metal shelf above her face. She averted her eyes, trying not to gag.

  “What’s wrong, Bixie?” a woman asked.

  “Tinnitus, and my patients are acting weird. You hear a hum?”

  The elevator dinged its arrival.

  Scot rolled the stretcher on and a man asked for a floor number. Scot said, “ICU on eight.”

  The elevator crawled upward, stopping for long periods while people got on or off. Employees greeted each other at each stop. Scot started asking, “What floor?”

  She guessed he punched the floor buttons for them. Eddie Jean dropped into the quiet place in her mind and tuned out sounds and people. She needed to be ready to heal as soon as they arrived. Scot sensed her mood and quit talking.

  He pushed the stretcher over the door bump and down a long, smooth hallway. Televisions blared as they passed rooms and annoying room lights buzzed. The hallway stank, triggering a stomach roll. Bowel movement odors, ammonia-scented urine, and balsam-type disinfectants mingled into something gross. She tried holding her breath. Instead, panic followed.

  Person after person asked where they were headed. The meat stretcher drew attention. Smooth linoleum floors transitioned into a rougher surface before she heard electronic doors open. Scot moved fast, turning the stretcher so quickly that her arm nearly dropped on the floor.

  “Hey, we didn’t call for transport,” a woman said.

  Scot jerked the stretcher to a stop and lifted the blanket. “Get out.”

  Eddie Jean grabbed his hand, and he pulled her out. She stood and shivered.

  The suffering crushed her. Misery saturated the air. Bill was in bad shape, but others were worse. She couldn’t breathe. Maybe this drowning sensation was why her granddad told her never to go to a hospital. The urge to help all, the sickest first, sent her reeling in panic. She couldn’t treat so many. Her vision narrowed, and she turned to bolt before she fainted.

  Scot grabbed her arm. “Take a deep breath. I need you.”

  His words steadied her. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Yes, you can. Focus. You’re not alone.”

  “Quitman Delaney, please call the operator,” a woman said over the intercom.

  “Granddad’s coming.”

  “No, he’s not,” Scot answered. “EJ, calm down. This isn’t Cloudland Memorial.”

  “What the…I’m calling security,” a woman wearing maroon scrubs shouted.

  Eddie Jean stared at Scot. Her pulse raced, and she felt dizzy. The urge to run away was as strong as the need to take a breath. “I’m sorry, I can’t heal Bill first. Triage doesn’t work by whim, sickest first.”

  “Stop,” Scot ordered, smoothing long hair behind her shoulder. “You don’t know the other patients.” He put his hands on her arms. “Look at me, slow your breathing. Breathe with me.”

  Shaking, she did as he asked. Her vision cleared but the twitching increased. His eyes resembled blue flames. Breathing in tandem with him calmed her.

  “You don’t have to prove anything,” Scot said in a low voice. “Your gift means you have choice. You don’t have to follow doctor rules. Please, there isn’t much time.”

  Eddie Jean nodded. Scot calmed her in a weird way. Maybe it was because he was the defacto XO leader, or maybe because he saved her from drowning, and maybe they had an undiscovered healing connection. Or maybe she liked him? The thought shocked. How could she think so after what their parents were doing?

  He smiled at her and she shivered, but in a good way. Her girlfriends would gag if she ever confided her feelings for him. She tried to pull back when he took her hand, but he held on.

  Scot led her into Bill’s room.

  Wilbur

  Wilbur felt trapped in a crock pot of pressure, and the Bridgeport news reporter knew it. She gloated at him over black glasses perched midway down her nose. The reporter had suggested they talk in the formal French garden behind the estate. She had been hitting him with insider information ever since, and he did his best to answer. An employee had been feeding her house secrets, but whom?

  “Like I said, Ms. Bone, I never saw Mary drinking. I smelled liquor when I tried to take the razor from her. She had booze breath.”

  “Mary had diabetes. If high, her breath would smell like alcohol.”

  “Mary didn’t take meds for diabetes. She ate meals, same as us. Mary tested her sugars monthly and logged her blood pressure daily in a spiral notebook. It’s still in the room.”

  “Doctor Hatcher had it bagged into evidence.” Her lips pulled to the right when she grinned at him, making it seem like a grimace instead. He hadn’t noticed her lips drawing upward on one side when they started the interview. A stroke symptom, he thought.

  He asked, “You feeling all right, Ms. Bone?”

  “Fabu. Now, answer my question. Do you and the others donate blood to Miss Harwood?”

  Yeah la
dy, I’ve even got a Band-Aid in the crook of my elbow to prove it. “Truth is, I’m a blood donor, but the nurses hang the blood. You’ll have to ask them where it comes from.”

  The reporter peered over her glasses after scanning her notes. “Seven percent of body weight is blood. According to my calculations, Mary had ten pints. See where I’m going, Wilbur? Mary Stinson had around four liters of missing blood. Missing! Where did it go? Her family thinks because she had O negative blood, Doc Hatcher forced Mary to donate. When she slit her wrists, she died because the donations left her in a dehydrated state. What blood type are you?”

  He leaned back in his chair and ignored the tightening in his chest. Lies kept getting thicker and thicker, but he couldn’t tell the truth now. Doc would fire everyone.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Come on, Mr. Jenkins. Knowing your blood type is as common as knowing your blood pressure or cholesterol numbers.”

  “Ma’am, with respect, I’m twenty-two years old, and I don’t know my numbers other than my height and weight.”

  The reporter reached for her water glass and spilled the contents. Wilbur picked up her notebook to keep it dry and, without exchanging a word, they switched tables. When he glanced up, the older woman frowned at him.

  “There are no weird house sounds, no call to duty blood donations, and no mystery involving her illness?” she asked.

  He sighed. “The mansion is old, turn-of-the-century ancient, and yeah, it makes sounds, especially during bad storms. We spent six hours on generator power that night. But listen, if you want to tell me how Miss Harwood came to be in a coma, I’m listening.”

  The reporter picked up the water pitcher and poured another glass. “You’re direct. I like you, Wilbur. You were sweet to Mary’s family and respectful when you described her last moments. I know they appreciated having her Bible, too. Now, convince me you don’t know how Miss Harwood came to be in a coma.”

  Pressure eased back, and he swallowed a relieved burp. “I thought she had a brain infection like meningitis. But when I gave the detective my statement, he mentioned the missing Duke students. Doc doesn’t like house help asking questions. What do you know?”