by L. T. Ryan
She decided on the more direct route, Highway 9, and set off toward it. If all went well, she’d be home in about seven hours.
But the way this trip had gone, she didn’t count on that happening.
Chapter 9
Addison awoke to a still and quiet apartment. The fan didn’t blow down at her forehead like normal. She glanced over at her iPod dock. The usual large bluish numbers were not present. She tugged on the cord, feeling it tighten, but not give as it remained plugged into the power outlet. She rose, slid off the bed and walked to her window. Pulling back the drapes, she saw complete darkness beyond the walls of her bedroom. White dots bounced along the parking lot. Cones of white light splashed the ground in front of them. She let her drapes fall and crossed her room, where she took her cell phone off her dresser. Turning it on, she used the device as her own flashlight.
She grabbed the door handle and turned it slowly. Exercising caution, she opened the door a crack. The soft glow of fire lit the hallway near the entrance to the living room.
“Carla?” she said to no response. She slipped out of her room and took a few steps down the hall. “Carla, are you in there?”
She received a moan this time.
A lump formed in Addison’s throat. She swallowed hard and continued on. Why hadn’t she grabbed the messenger bag or at least one of the guns? She had forgotten about them until a moment ago.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Carla moaned louder. Addison figured the woman had drank and smoked too much and now paid the price. Or worse, not everyone had left. Someone had stayed behind and attacked her roommate. Although, if that had happened, why had they left her alone?
Addison peeked around the corner. The front door was closed and locked, the security bolt engaged. All of the curtains were drawn. Several candles had been lit and placed on the kitchen table and on the coffee table. Carla’s right foot rested dangerously close to one of them.
She reached down to shake the woman. Her hand grabbed a hold of Carla’s sweat soaked shirt and retreated back like a snake coiling. Carla groaned while her eyelids fluttered. Addison took a deep breath, calming herself. She reached down again and placed the back of her hand against her roommate’s forehead. It burned as hot as if she had placed her hand a few inches over one of the candles.
“You’re burning up,” she said.
Carla nodded but said nothing.
Addison went into the kitchen. She pulled down a few pill bottles and found the one labeled fever reducer. Shaking the bottle, she realized there were only a few pills left. She grabbed the faucet and turned it. Fortunately, the water still worked. She filled a glass, and brought it and two pills to Carla.
“Take this,” she said.
Carla shifted from her side to her back. She stared up at Addison. Her mouth was parted. From three feet away, Addison could smell the foul stench of the woman’s breath.
“Go on,” Addison said, holding out the glass and pills.
Carla reached up and Addison placed the pills in the palm of the woman’s hand. She waited until Carla had a secure grip on the glass before letting it go.
“When did you start feeling bad?” Addison asked.
“During the party,” Carla replied. “Maybe an hour before you got home I had a slight headache. By the time you got here, it felt like my brain was splitting in two. I figured it was from the beer and the weed, but this is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’m hot, then cold. Sweating and freezing at the same time.” She took another drink from the glass. A second later she coughed and about half of the fluid came back up.
Addison stepped back. “We should get you in your own bed. Can you stand?”
Carla rose from the couch. The process was excruciatingly slow. Addison could have assisted, but she didn’t want to be puked on by a roommate she disliked. As Carla rounded the couch, she stumbled. Addison’s instincts forced her to reach out, grabbing a hold of Carla’s elbow and saving her from tumbling to the ground.
“Thanks,” her roommate said in a raspy voice.
“Come on, to bed.” Addison guided Carla toward the woman’s bedroom. She planned on stopping at the door, but continued inside and helped her roommate into bed.
“More water,” Carla said.
Addison left the room and filled up two large plastic mugs with water. Both had lids and straws. She figured they’d create the least amount of mess. Exiting the room, she swiped the light switch off. If the power came back on, she didn’t want the light to wake up Carla. She closed the door behind her and walked to the kitchen to look for something to eat. There wasn’t much. The scavengers her roommate had let into the apartment had done a good job of eating almost everything. She found a single pack of dried noodles. A lot of good that would do her without power to heat the water.
She grabbed a coffee mug, filled it with cold water, and dumped in the contents of the pouch. Food was food, she told herself. Hot or cold didn’t matter. It sure as hell wouldn’t matter if the world kept on this crazy path it had taken over the past twelve hours. She sat down at the table and stuffed her mouth full of cold noodles. Her back was to the door, leaving her feeling uncomfortable. She rose, went to her bedroom and grabbed the messenger bag, lifting the strap over her head and onto her shoulder. She returned to the kitchen table, where her half-eaten mug of food waited. As she sat down, the lights flicked back on.
“Dammit,” she muttered, annoyed at having eaten cold food. She rose again and carried the mug to the microwave. Thirty seconds later, she had a steaming hot meal. Half of one, at least. She took another look in the pantry and found a half-full bag of store-brand corn chips. She took one out and bit into it. It was stale, but it’d do. She took the mug of noodles and the bag of chips to the couch. She returned to the kitchen once more and grabbed a beer from the fridge. What the hell, she figured.
She settled onto the couch after dousing it with disinfectant. The scented spray was not strong enough to cover up the foul smell left behind by Carla. Fearing that her roommate had defecated on the sofa, Addison moved to the recliner.
She switched on the television. Over ninety percent of the stations available ran one of three news feeds. A map of the United States showed several dots of varying size and shades of orange and red. Every major city she could identify on the east coast had a bright red circle hovering over it. It looked a lot like an election map, only with the republicans winning major metropolitan areas.
Vice President Harkness appeared on the screen. He urged that everyone exercise extreme caution and vigilance. He said that emergency services were still operating, and local law enforcement was there to protect citizens. There was no need, at this time, for martial law.
Addison laughed at the statements. Her walk through town a few hours prior told her that the police were as scared as everyone else over what was happening. Any of them that had remained on the job would bail on the public soon enough.
Besides, why was the Vice President addressing the public? Where was President Bryant? Had he become sick? Perhaps they’d already ushered him underground where he’d be safe while everyone else in the country perished.
She pressed the mute button and left the sound off until the speech was over. She had no interest in words meant to calm people instead of telling them what was truly happening. She grabbed another beer out of the fridge. This one was slightly less warm than the previous beer. From the kitchen, she heard her roommate moaning.
Was the woman awake and in pain? Or sleeping and having fever dreams?
Addison fought the urge to check on Carla and went back to the recliner. She sat down as the Vice President’s speech ended. A brown-haired reporter came on. Above the woman’s head was a banner that said “Live.” Addison unmuted the television and turned the volume up. The woman had already announced her name and got all formalities out of the way.
The reporter said, “The virus that is sweeping the nation has resulted in over five hundred thousand deaths globally,
and at least ten thousand in the U.S. An unnamed source has informed us that while a large percentage of those who are affected will not survive, the length of time it takes for the body to shut down varies.” She paused and coughed. “Excuse me. It is the belief of our source that what we have seen today is only the tip of the iceberg.” The woman rose and turned away from the camera. The jerking of her body indicated a violent coughing attack. She turned around, a forced smile plastered on her face. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth and covered her lips. “Again, though this source is anonymous, I have no reason to doubt the validity of his statements. He further informed us that the virus has the ability to mutate those who are affected. As we all saw in the streets of Morocco, there were those who appeared to be attacking other humans. It was as though the attacking group were a pack of animals.”
A man stepped in front of the camera, resulting in a bright white screen for a few moments. He reappeared across the desk from the reporter with a towel in his hand. He patted her face with it. She stared at her blood spread across the towel. Her eyes grew wide before she had another coughing attack. She grabbed the towel from the man and pressed it to her face. The fit did not stop. She rose and left the set. The sounds of her agony played through the speakers.
Addison flipped to another channel. The station was replaying the Vice President’s speech. She muted the sound again. Carla coughed some more. Addison watched the clock, counting the minutes until her roommate finally settled down again. Five. Five minutes of non-stop coughing.
Is that what’s in store for all of us?
Chapter 10
Turk closed the door to his room and fell back into an oversized chair. The first day had not gone according to plan. Perhaps things happened the way they were supposed to. The virus spread across the country more rapidly than he ever imagined. The information he had been given said that the worst-case scenario would be a week from the first reports of outbreaks overseas. Maybe he’d been naive believing the information.
Never trust the government, his dad had always said. As he had much of his life, Turk wished he’d listened to the old man.
He reached into a side compartment built into the chair and retrieved a remote. He switched on a set of six thirty-two inch monitors mounted to the wall. Combined, they formed a rectangle that took up half the space. Two of the monitors displayed a full screen image of the two largest spaces in the compound, the kitchen and eating area, and the main living and recreation area. His wife and daughter were in the kitchen. His daughter stood on a footstool while his wife mixed something in a bowl. Maybe they were making cookies or brownies or something else that Turk didn’t approve of, but didn’t have the heart to say no to when his little girl asked if she could have some.
The four other monitors were split into dual and quad displays. They monitored other areas of the facility, including bedrooms. Turk had told the others that their private areas were unmonitored. Maybe they would be, one day. But until he knew he could trust everyone inside, he’d watch them like a hawk.
He adjusted the displays until one was free. Then he rose and retrieved a wireless keyboard that had a touchpad built into it above the number pad. He’d grown accustomed to using it over the past few years, and figured why let the end of the world stop him.
First he pulled up the SSH server. Sean was still logged in, but showed idle. Tim Lindley was logged in, too. Tim had served in the SEALs with Turk in the late nineties. Now, Tim had his own island in the Exumas, an archipelago in the southeast corner of the Bahamas. His island was about a quarter-mile across and a mile long. It had fresh water and plenty of vegetation. Tim had built his own compound on the island, taking advantage of wind, solar and water for power. It was completely isolated, too, with nothing for tens of miles in any direction, except for a few sweeping sandbars. Tim had nicknamed the island Turtle Cay. When pressed by Turk for information on how he was able to pay for it, Tim declined.
Turk’s plan was to lead his people to Turtle Cay after the chaos died down. He figured they’d make their move in a year, unless their position became compromised.
He pulled up a cursor prompt and began typing. “How’re things there, Tim?”
A few moments later, Tim replied. “Wouldn’t know the world was in chaos from where I’m sitting.”
“You secure your boats?”
“They’re up on land and inside concrete bunkers.”
“Did you manage to get a plane?”
“Ten-four,” Tim replied.
“Let’s hope you never have to use it. It’s gonna be a bitch up there soon.”
“Not so much up there, but trying to figure out where to land and refuel.”
“I know. I don’t want you to put yourself in that situation unless we’re sure you can get gas.” Turk paused for a moment to check the camera feeds. “Anyway, we’ve discussed this a dozen times. I just wanted to check in on you and make sure all was okay there. Did you manage to get the kids and their families to the island?”
“All but one.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“He’s on a boat, and we’ve been in touch. He should be here in a week at the latest.”
As long as he doesn’t have to go to shore. Turk ended the conversation by telling Tim to stay logged on and to check in every six hours by posting a message. If only he could get more people to do the same. They were all in for a lonely few weeks, or months. For some, the server might be the only contact they’d have. But for how long? Those that didn’t have a means of satellite communication would be cut off at some point.
When would that be?
Turk pulled up the AP news site and scanned the latest articles. He figured in a few days the updates would stop. Reporters would either get sick and die, or get sick and mutate. Maybe one or two would survive the initial virus, but then what? If they had no support network in place, they were as good as dead, like most anyone who survived this thing.
One report caught his eye. Cities had begun establishing shelters for people to gather. A recipe for disaster in Turk’s opinion. Someone who took longer to show symptoms would make their way inside the shelter, infecting countless others. Some would die. Some would turn. They would kill anyone left. And what about those turned beings wandering the street? How long until they smelled the stink of the living and found their way to the source?
He minimized the browser and adjusted all six monitors back to their original configuration. He saw his brother enter the living and recreation area. Marcus walked through the room as if he owned the place. Had it been a mistake to welcome him into the compound? Turk hadn’t thought so until the incident with the police officer. He knew there would be some immaturity to deal with. He hoped that watching the world fall apart would be enough to force Marcus to grow up and take things seriously. Apparently not. He had to keep his brother on a short leash. If things boiled over too far, and someone had to go, Turk had to be prepared to make his brother be that someone if he deserved it.
Marcus walked into the kitchen. Turk’s gaze shifted to the next monitor. He saw his little girl cringe, get off her stool and move to the other side of her mother. Turk leaned forward and adjusted the volume for that display. Nothing happened, though. He didn’t need sound to know that Marcus had offended Turk’s wife. The woman dropped her mixer and aimed a loaded finger in the man’s direction.
Turk cut the displays and left his room. He let the door fall shut, then engaged the security lock. He walked down the long, dimly lit hallway, and then cut through a passage that only he knew about. The secret hall led to the pantry, which, when he emerged from it, placed him directly behind his brother.
“What are you doing, Marcus?” Turk said.
Marcus spun around. His eyes and mouth were open wide. Behind him, Turk’s wife Elana smiled. Layla stepped out from behind her mother. Tear tracks stained her cheeks.
Turk held out his hand and gestured for Layla to go back to her mother. He took a step toward Marcus. They
were within arm’s reach of each other.
“I asked you a question, Marcus.”
Marcus licked his lips and smiled. “Just messin’ around, bro. That’s all.”
Turk took another step. He was close enough to smell the garlic on his brother’s breath. “Why’s Layla crying?”
“You know kids, man.”
“I’m going to make this as clear as I can. I don’t want any trouble in here. We’re all inside this building for a common purpose. Nobody needs an asshole to screw this up. First one that goes will be you.” He held up a finger as Marcus opened his mouth. “I know what you’re gonna say. Forget about it. I don’t care what Mom made me promise. The moment you endanger my family is the moment I have no use for you. That clear?”
“Crystal,” Marcus said through his clenched teeth.
Both men remained still, staring at each other. Turk felt beads of sweat on his forehead, and trickling down his chest and back. His muscles stayed tense, waiting for an attack.
Finally, Marcus let his shoulders slump and he took a step back, turned, and left the kitchen. Turk blocked the door for a minute afterward. He felt Layla grab hold of his hand. He wished his other daughter, Becky, had hold of the other. But she wasn’t there, and Turk knew he had to come to grips with the fact that he might not ever see her again.
“What did he say?” Turk asked Elana.
“It was nothing.”
Turk looked at her and lifted an eyebrow. “Nothing? Why was she in tears?”
“Because I yelled at him.” She paused and looked up at the ceiling. “Just let it go, Turk. Okay? Can you do that for me?”
He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to let it go. If there was a serious issue, he wanted it resolved then and there. Not three months down the road when the team was so tight that the loss of one person destroyed their odds.