Tainted Reality (The Rememdium Series Book 2)

by Ashley Fontainne

  “Actually, He has. You all saved our lives back at the school. Gave us a chance to continue on and make it this close to our remaining family with a vehicle full of supplies and armed escorts. What more could He have done?”

  “A lot!” Reed shouted. “For starters, not lettin' people turn into fuckin' monsters! Oh, and let’s not forget how quickly the livin' turned into selfish bastards and fled at the first signs of danger! I’m not sure what’s worse—the dead eatin' the livin', or the livin' killin' the livin'!”

  “Son, the only thing that’s changed in this world from the deplorable state it was before is the dead rose and are walking again. Humanity’s inhumanity toward others is still the same, no matter the cause.”

  Closing the space between himself and Pastor Trent, Reed yelled, “That’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard!”

  Walt stepped forward to intervene, but Martha beat him to it. She put both hands on Reed’s heaving chest. “Reed—go check on Jesse. Now.”

  “Crazy fools,” Reed muttered while walking away.

  Turning back to Pastor Trent, Martha softened her tone. “I understand your decision, and we’ll pray for y’all to make it safely. Do you have enough gas?”

  “And ammo?” Walt added.

  Pastor Trent nodded. “Yes, thank you. Another blessing from above was not only these big, safe vehicles, but ones full of extra gas. Again, thank you. For everything. Safe travels, my friends. God bless.”

  Martha grabbed Walt’s hand and squeezed, stopping him from saying anything else. In seconds, seven vehicles pulled back onto the highway led by the pastor and headed north on Highway 9.

  “Ain’t no way they’ll survive,” Kyle remarked. “I agree with Reed. Crazy fools.”

  “Don’t judge others for their decisions until you know their reasons,” Martha responded.

  “I know their reasons. They wanted our help—took it—and leave when things get tough,” Walt said.

  “Wrong. Jolene has ovarian cancer. Stage Four. They just found out last week. Planned on announcin’ it at church on Sunday durin’ prayer request time.”

  “How do you know, then?” Walt asked.

  “Jolene told me back at the store. She’s got a month—tops. Can you blame her for wantin’ to be surrounded by family when she goes?”

  “No, I guess not,” Kyle said. “Okay, so our group shrunk a bit. Means we can drive faster. How much farther to the cave, Walt?”

  “About forty miles. If we don’t run into any trouble, we should arrive by nine. Then another hour or so on foot.”

  Kyle rolled his eyes. “Foot? Up here at night? Oh, this will be fun.”

  “And dangerous,” Martha added. “So stick together and stay alert. We’re all in this as one unit now.”

  Sure enough, her husband was right on target. They pulled up and parked in empty spots at the deer camp at ten after nine.

  Not a word had been spoken after they left the pit stop on the side of the road, even when Martha passed out water and food. They were each lost inside their shattered minds, wondering what awaited them in the dark.

  And busy searching the roads for any signs of life.

  Or the dead.

  When Kyle shut the engine down, Martha looked back at Jesse, who’d been awake for the last half-hour. The girl looked like hell. Martha worried about her state of mind. “Come on, let’s gather what we can carry and head out. We'll come and get the rest later.”

  People streamed out of the remaining four vehicles, all busying themselves with grabbing supplies. The ragtag group of Martha, Walt, Turner, Jesse, Reed, Kyle, Lamar, and the others worked quickly, securing items while simultaneously watching the woods.

  Walt stopped next to Martha and swiped a kiss on her cheek after grabbing the pack of food and water from her hands. “Let me take those. I need your expert marksmanship skills to keep us safe. I’ll lead.”

  Nodding in agreement, Martha grabbed a box of shells and reloaded her weapon. “Turner? Make sure to pack the remainin’ bullets in your bag.”

  “On it,” Turner said from behind her.

  Doors locked and feet shuffled as the group of fifteen gathered in a semi-circle. Shaun Kilpatrick stepped forward, rifle dangling from his chest. His clothes were covered in dark, dried blood, and the haunted, sad look on his face made Martha cringe.

  “How far?” Shaun asked.

  “About five klicks north,” Walt answered. “The trail’s thin and treacherous. Watch your footin’. Form a single line behind me and don’t veer from the trail. Cliffs are steep up here, and just one misstep will send you bouncin’ down the hillside.”

  “You’re sure there’s room for us all in your spot?” Bailey asked.

  “Wouldn’t have brought y’all up here if I had any doubts,” Walt answered. “Come on, enough chit-chat. We’re exposed out here. Need to get movin’.”

  Rather than wait for any responses, Walt turned from the crowd and headed to the trail. As instructed, the others followed, forming a single line.

  Martha kept her gaze bouncing from one side to the other, glad her vision adapted to the darkness so quickly. Though she was way past forty, she still had the eyes of a teenager.

  The night air was cold, the temperature in the mountains lower than in the valley. By the time they’d trekked a mile, Martha’s eyes were watering. Judging by the numbness in her cheeks, she guessed it was below freezing.

  They were on a stretch of the trail with an incline, and everyone was breathing hard. No one spoke, using their strength to keep moving forward. To keep her thoughts away from the horrors of earlier, Martha counted each step. They were close to the two-mile mark when Walt ground to a halt.

  “Hold up,” Walt whispered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Walt squatted down and peered at the ground in front of him. Martha followed his gaze as Kyle stepped past her, flashlight in hand. “We ain’t alone.”

  “What’s that?” Martha asked.

  “Dried blood and brain matter. Look there,” Walt answered, pointing left.

  “Bullet casin’?” Martha said.

  “Yep. Someone’s got their brains blown out,” Kyle said.

  “Maybe a hunter bagged a deer?”

  “No, honey. Deer ain’t got that much inside their heads,” Walt responded.

  “Oh, shit! You think maybe someone killed an infected?” Kyle asked.

  “No. Where’s the corpse?” Walt answered, standing back up. He took a few steps forward and picked up a backpack. “I certainly wouldn’t stop to bury a monster I’d just shot. I’d be too busy runnin’. This corpse took a ride on the back of whoever shot it. See the indentations there, and there? Only one set of prints and either they were made by someone very overweight, or someone carryin’ another.”

  “Thought you said this place of yours was safe and no one knew about it?” Shaun asked.

  Martha looked over her shoulder, noticing everyone had crammed together. She felt their collective anxiety.

  “I did, and it is. Dammit! I knew I was right!” Walt said after rummaging through the pack.

  Turner asked, “Military issue?”

  “Yep. Told you those tracks we saw two years ago were from some government fool!”

  Martha could tell Walt was close to full meltdown. “Well, they ain’t here now and can’t get into our cave, so let’s stop gabbin’ and get movin’ before they hear us.”

  Walt tossed the pack aside, nodding in agreement. “Bastards better steer clear of this side of the mountain.”

  Picking up their pace, the group made it to the entrance of the cave in twenty minutes. Walt and Turner cleared the brush and limbs from the opening. After unlocking the padlock securing the heavy metal door Martha helped Walt install years ago, her nerves settled a bit.

  “Hang on while I get the generator goin’,” Walt said.

  He disappeared into the dark cavern and seconds later, the generator purred to life. A faint glow of yellow shone from the
doorway. “Come on, hurry,” Martha urged.

  The others sped past her, unwilling to remain out in the cold, dark woods any longer. Deputy Bailey was the last one inside. Martha shut the door and pulled down the bar across it, then joined the others.

  Kyle let out a low whistle. “Wow, some spread you got here. Cots, beddin', jars of food, light. Better than some hotels I’ve stayed at.”

  “Let me give you a quick tour. We’ve got about six-thousand square feet down here. Behind that wall over there is a latrine. Blankets, beddin’ and pillows are inside those six containers. We’ve only got us ten cots, so some of you will be in sleepin’ bags. Water goes there, and food over there,” Walt pointed. “Let’s get set up and get some shut-eye. We all need to rest.”

  Martha and the others worked in tandem, and in minutes, the cots were covered with sheets and blankets, sleeping bags resting next to them. The supplies were stored and bladders emptied. Though the cave was cold, it was warmer than outside, and the energy exuded from fifteen moving bodies helped raise the temperature.

  Martha finished stacking up the remaining supplies with Walt when Reed walked up.

  “Thank you. For everythin'. Jesse and I owe you a debt we can never repay.”

  “No need to thank us. This is what friends do—help one another,” Martha responded.

  “But, we ain’t always been friends, more like distant acquaintances.”

  “Well, we are now. Actually, considerin’ how much those two are in love, we’re practically family,” Walt said, nodding his head over to where Turner and Jesse where.

  Martha looked over at the duo. Turner made sure Jesse was warm and snug on a cot, then crawled into a sleeping bag right beside her. The love between them filled the room and made Martha’s heart swell with pride.

  Fifteen minutes later, generator turned off to save gas and no sounds but the steady breathing of fourteen exhausted others drifting off to sleep, Martha clasped her fingers around Walt’s. She whispered, “I love you, Walter Addison. Thank you for bein' ready.”

  “For you, the world. Goodnight, lover.”

  UNEARTHING THE CAUSE - Sunday - December 21st – 3:15 a.m.

  Everett stared in shock through the small lens of the microscope. It was the second time in his life he’d been stunned into awed silence inside the lab. The first time had been a joyous moment. A discovery capable of changing the course of human history. The current one was so horrendous, Everett lacked words to describe it, though it had the same capability in terms of how it would affect those still alive.

  He leaned back and grabbed the photocopies he’d found while rummaging around in Dr. Flint’s office earlier. While waiting for Warton and Porterfield to return, Everett couldn’t stand reading any longer, so he busied himself by rifling through her office. When he found a hidden slot underneath her desk and extracted a folder filled with piles of paper, he’d wanted to kick himself for not searching sooner.

  Inside the folder was a goldmine. It contained a clean, clear copy of the last three months of Everett’s handwritten notes before the discovery, including the chemical formula of batch 10,899.

  Hand shaking, Everett flipped to the page with the formula. He set it back down and picked up the printout with the results from running a sample through the GC-MS machine. Comparing the two pieces of paper, Everett’s stomach dropped. He almost wished Daryl would have destroyed the Gas Chromatography-Mass Spectrometry machine like he’d done to the computers. The results made Everett's head spin.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” Everett muttered.

  Refusing to look anymore, he stood and left the lab. He needed to hear all the details from Warton on what exactly Porterfield was doing before he turned. Everett had to make sure he was right before explaining his findings to the remaining five.

  He only made it a few steps down the hall before changing directions and running to the bathroom. He threw up, overwhelmed by the heavy weight of the discovery. After puking and washing his face, Everett almost laughed. He’d kept it together when Warton brought in Porterfield’s dead body, holding back the vomit while helping to extract blood samples. He’d been proud then, unwilling to show any signs of weakness in front of the others.

  His pride disappeared the minute he viewed the results. Now, Everett was overcome with shame, guilt, and remorse.

  Stepping back out into the hallway, he trudged forward until he reached the common area where Dirk and the others took up residence. Pausing at the door, Everett let out a long sigh.

  How in the world can I tell them the truth? Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll all be asleep. I could just run away. Snag a set of keys and sneak topside. Better yet! Find one of their guns and blow my head off first before one of them gets the chance to beat me to it.

  Opening the door, Everett stepped inside, heart racing. He spotted Dirk first, who was quietly talking to Kevin Warton on the far side of the room. Warton was still dressed in the filthy clothes he had on before, his face devoid of emotion.

  Everett crossed the room and sat across from the two men. The remaining soldiers followed and sat around the table. Everett wondered if they sensed or smelled his fear. “Tell me every detail of what happened.”

  Warton raised his head, a set of bloodshot eyes stared back, full of pain and anger. “What’s there to tell? We went up, Thomas got sick, tried to attack me, and I shot him. End of story.”

  “Did he exhibit any signs of being ill before he turned? Say anything at all about how he felt? Give any indication something was wrong? Was he sweating or in pain?”

  “Why does it matter now? You wanted a sample, I brought you one. Plain and simple.”

  “Warton, breathe. I know it’s hard, but even the smallest detail might help the Doc,” Dirk urged.

  Kevin stood and paced back and forth in front of the table. Everett grimaced at the dried tissue and blood embedded in the back of his jacket.

  “Details? You want the gory details? Well, here they are. We went up, scoured the wreckage, found nothing except a small, metal box. Porterfield opened it, we each snatched a cigar, and he hit some blow from inside. A present from some low-life flyboy fan from across the border. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. He took three hits of the stuff and then we started down the mountainside. Within ten minutes, he was puking his guts out. He fell over after his heart gave out and then popped back up and tried to eat me. There. How’s that for fucking details? Care to know if I threw up, too? Or cried like a baby after shooting my friend right between his black, fucked up eyes?”

  Everett’s stomach rolled again. He closed his eyes and fought the urge to throw up. What he wanted—needed—to hear, was missing from Warton’s description. He’d been praying in silence the entire time, hoping Kevin wouldn’t mention drugs. Hearing the words crushed what little sanity remaining inside Everett’s mind.

  “Doc? What’s wrong? What did you discover in there?” Dirk asked.

  Afraid what the reaction would be from the others when he answered, Everett forced himself to stand. He didn’t want his life to end while sitting in a plastic chair. “Several things. None of them are good.”

  “We didn’t expect them to be, so please continue,” Dirk replied.

  “I don’t know if I can. It’s just…too surreal.”

  “Porterfield is dead because you needed a fucking sample! And since I’m the one who ended his life, I think I've earned the right to hear why he turned!” Kevin yelled.

  To bring his point home, Kevin smashed his fist on the table. All of the metal cups and utensils used to eat with earlier rattled. Everett bit his lip to keep from jumping in fright.

  Taking a deep breath, Everett replied, “You’re right, Kevin. So, here’s what I know. The sample of blood and tissue revealed traces of transgenic bacteria and the Rhabdovirus encased inside fungus. There were also high amounts of benzoylmethlecgonine.”

  “Fucking English, Doc! What does any of that mean?”

  Dirk interrupted Kevin’s outb
urst. “Rhabdovirus? Is that any way related to rabies? That certainly would explain a lot.”

  “Yes. And benzoylmethlecgonine is the clinical term for cocaine. I needed to know how much time transpired between Thomas ingesting some and turning.”

  Kevin’s mouth gaped open. “Are you trying to tell us the cocaine turned Porterfield into a zombie? That’s even more ridiculous than saying the word zombie! What the fuck’s wrong with you, Doc?”

  “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me?” Everett yelled. The weight of the situation burst out of him. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. The reason Porterfield’s skin looks like the root system of a tree took up residence underneath it is because that’s exactly what it is: a root system. A fungal network coursed through his body and took control of everything. Just like in a plant system, chemical signals pass through the network. That’s what reanimated Porterfield—and others. A fucking fungal infection took over and simply used the body as a means of transport in search of food.”

  “You’re insane,” Kevin snapped as he collapsed onto the chair next to him. “Certifiable. That’s impossible.”

  “Three days ago, I would’ve agreed one-hundred percent. But after opening him up and seeing those fungal filaments actually functioning as vascular and neural networks, I changed my mind.”

  “Okay, let’s all calm down here. Doc, if you believe some sort of funky, fungal infection is the cause of the problem, did you determine if it’s contagious? Is it airborne? How is it transmitted? Are we all at risk?”

  Though he wanted to answer Dirk’s question with a lie, the scientist inside Everett wouldn’t let him. “At first, I thought so too, but after discovering cocaine was in Porterfield’s system, and verifying the facts he ingested some from Kevin’s recollections, we’re fine. Transmission occurs from ingestion of a substance with the infection, or through the exchange of bodily fluids.”

  “Gee, that’s good to know,” Kevin muttered. “As long as none of us get high or sustain a bite, we’re fine. Yay.”

  “Seems to me your concern level isn’t too high, Kevin. You’re still wearing contaminated clothing.”