by Jon Fore
“One scientist compared this short-lived but rampant bug to the likes of rabies or advanced stages of syphilis, driving some of the infected completely mad. Crime scene investigators have counted some two thousand murders committed along with other violent crimes as the virus reached its apex.
“Investigators have also said today that all Black Water residents are now accounted for, and the death toll stands at three thousand four hundred and sixty-three souls. The total number of survivors remains at three, which include one tourist. Their accounts of the nightmare are sorted and frankly horrifying.”
“Do you think anyone will move back there? Do we have a modern day ghost town in Black Water now?”
“Well, I know I wouldn’t move there!” the older man chuckled jokingly. “And now for sports with our own, Danny Blankenship. Danny?”
* * *
“Did you isolate it?” the gruff, field-worn general asked.
“Yeah, I got one, and it is still alive,” the young scientist said as he squeezed the syringe into a capped test tube.
“Out of all that mess, you found only one?” the general snapped.
“Listen, I know who you are and all of that, but I don’t work for you, and I am not in the service. Go snap at someone in uniform,” the young scientist shot at the older man.
“This is a military operation. Answer the question as I asked it, or I will find someone else who will,” the general replied threateningly.
The scientist knew that a microbiologist finding a new breed of organism was rare and almost unheard of at the start of one’s career, so he bit back his next retort. “Yes, General, I was able to isolate only one.”
“Very well. Keep looking,” the general replied roughly as he bit into the over-smoked cigar hanging from his mouth.
* * *
“Ethan?” Shannon asked weakly.
“I’m here, Shannon, right here,” Ethan replied from her bedside. He lifted her hand and held it in both of his.
“We did it, Ethan. We won,” she coughed around the roughness of the recently removed respirator tube.
“Yeah, we did.” Ethan felt his eyes filling with unshed tears.
“You should have left me…”
“Never.”
“Where’s Kayla?”
“She’s in the pediatric ward, in the playroom playing with other children.”
“Is she alright?”
“Fine, Shannon; don’t worry about her or me.”
Shannon rolled her head over to Ethan. The flesh around her eye had gone to a bluish-green color and the swelling was all but gone now. “What was it, Ethan?”
“They are saying it was some form of super virus or something.”
“A virus that could talk?”
“I don’t know, Shannon, that’s just what they are saying.”
She rolled back towards the ceiling, and locked eyes with a reporter spewing something on the muted television. “I don’t think I have a place to live anymore.”
“Sure you do. I dropped out of college and got a job here in town. My parents’ inheritance was enough to put a deposit on a small house.”
“How many bedrooms?” Shannon asked as she rolled her head back to Ethan.
“Three,” he said simply.
Shannon stared at him longingly, searching him for a further answer.
“One for Kayla, one as an office…”
Shannon smiled at him, squeezed his hand, and began to cry—not in a sad way, but in a deeply relieving way, in the manner of Atlas finally releasing his burden of the world. Ethan decided, then, never to tell her that while in her short lived coma, they had treated her for a venereal disease and relieved her of a pregnancy—the results of her rape. She could bear children, at least that was what the attending nurse had said, and that was enough for Ethan.
* * *
Kayla was finally comfortable again. She was with others her own age, and even though they were hurt in some way or another, she found them endlessly entertaining. They had wonderful imaginations and smiled easily, even without her having to force them.
Occasionally, she would have to convince one of them to play her game, but that was not often, especially after the first time. The little burned girl was used to being in charge and she wanted to play some board game. Kayla wanted to play dress up with the donated clothing.
“Dress up is for babies!” the little burned girl shouted.
“No it’s not!” Kayla shouted back, no longer moved by the numerous scabs on the girl’s face.
“Is to!”
“No… it’s… not!” Kayla shouted back as she reached into the burned girl’s chest with her mind and squeezed whatever was there until she passed out. The others were more than willing to play dress up with her, and she soon found herself working adult-sized sleeves over child-size arm casts. The nurses simply carried the burned girl away to her room saying something about how she was not ready to be up and playing just yet.
Kayla knew that when Black Water gets inside you, there is no cleaning that out. You cannot drink bleach, or any other cleanser for that matter, and you just had to learn to live with it. The special abilities it gave her made it easy to cope, even with the ancient voices whispering from some great distance in her mind.
* * *
The house was quickly falling into disrepair. The paint was flaking off just about everywhere, and the spiders had returned en-mass. Cobwebs filled every small space they could find and trapped the dust and other flying debris, giving the house a worn and shabby appearance.
She had read every book in the library twice and searched through every nook and cupboard in the house. What she never imagined, or the Culture for that matter, was the unending boredom of watching the Heart House finally fall to ruin. She remembered that day of agony, the day the Culture cut her off, made her sentient, and then died in a burning rage of hatred, leaving her to watch this wonderful house die.
Then on one of these endless days, there came voices from the woods. She rushed to the windows of the second floor and looked out. There were kids coming from the recovering trees, lots of them with beer, radios, and sleeping bags. Fate had finally brought her entertainment, and when done seducing them and twisting them to her grotesque acts of carnal pleasure, she would kill them. Madison would finally have company again, the Heart House could rise from its spiraling death, and the Culture would begin to grow again. This time, she would be the elder, and this time, she would be the only member of the council.
About the Author
Jon Fore was born in Marysville, Ohio in 1968, the third son of Dave and Judy Fore. After graduating Manalapan High School in 1987, Jon enlisted in the United States Navy, serving a combat role during Desert Storm. Now he lives in Florida with his beautiful wife and three wonderful children.
His first professional short story, Mid Watch published in 2004 in The Pow Wow Paper. This was to precede a number of short stories, thesis, and even poetry publishing credits over the next two years with periodicals such as The Story Teller, Events Quarterly, Crime and Suspense Magazine and Dystopia magazine.
In 2006, his short story, Undone, was nominated for a Push Cart award by Story Teller Magazine. Since then, Jon has completed seven novels, the most recent, Paradise in 2011.
www.jonfore.com
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 Jon Fore
Copyright © 2011 by Jon Fore
Published by Obscura Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole, or in part, by any means, without the written consent of Obscura Publishing.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are fictitiously used. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Any trademarks referred to within this publication are the property of their respective trademark holders.
Obscura Publishing - www.obscurapublishing.com
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ISBN: 978-1-4524-3085-0
Cover Artist: Lisa Dabbs
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