The F*cked Series (Book 1): Uppercase

by Gleason, R. K.

  “Do you all need some help?” an older woman shouts from just outside the store’s double sliding doors.

  “Call 911!” Dave yells as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and hands it to Pam. “Get an ambulance!”

  “I already tried,” the woman wearing the smock with the store’s logo replies. “The lines are busy.”

  “Try again!” Dave says as Pam ties his shirt around the woman’s leg.

  “Did that too,” the checker answers, still not leaving the safety of the open doors.

  “What the hell?” Dave says, looking down at Pam and the bleeding woman. Her color’s turning an unhealthy shade of gray and she’s definitely going into shock.

  “She’s going to be fucked if she doesn’t get some help soon,” Pam tells him as she tries to apply more pressure to the leg.

  “There’s a 24-hour, stat-care clinic about two blocks down,” the clerk shouts, pointing down the street.

  “How fucked?” Dave asks Pam, weighing the options against coating his backseat in the woman’s blood.

  “Uppercase fucked,” Pam replies, jerking the knot tighter on the woman’s leg before grabbing her under the arms. “Help me!” she tells him, making the decision for him.

  “Right!” he says, moving to the other side so they can each take an arm. The woman sobs, weeping groggy tears. He holds the woman up as Pam slides into the back first, and he can’t help noticing the bloody handprint she leaves on the door’s armrest, and the back of the driver’s headrest… and across the rear seat. “Goddamn it,” he mutters, easing the woman through the door as Pam pulls her the rest of the way into the car. A thick coating of crimson soaks wetly into the back seat as he slams the door and jumps into the driver’s seat.

  “Hurry,” Pam urges from the back as Dave glances down at his pack of cigarettes sitting in the console.

  “I am,” he replies, shifting the car into gear and wondering how pissed she’d be if he tried to light a smoke during the short, frantic drive to the all-hours doc-in-a-box. Deciding against it for now, he races to the exit and turns right onto the street.

  “Fuck!” he shouts, slamming on the brakes for the red light at the first intersection.

  “It’s five o’clock in the morning,” Pam reminds him. “Just run it!”

  Looking in both directions and seeing one set of headlights several hundred yards to his right, Dave takes his foot from the brake pedal and stomps on the gas. As he crosses the intersection, he catches a glimpse of blue lights starting to flash above the headlights he’d seen.

  “It fucking figures,” he says, continuing to accelerate. Dave knows the clinic is just another block, having been there once for a cold that wouldn’t go away and had worked its way into a case of pneumonia a year ago. He figures he’ll get there just as, or slightly after, the police try to pull him over. Hopefully by then, they’ll figure out what’s going on, not write him a ticket and possibly hunt the rabid dog down and shoot it for him. All in appreciation for the good-Samaritan shit he and Pam were doing right now. Not to mention the money it was going to take to get the woman’s DNA removed from the inside of their car.

  Dave just gets to the parking lot entrance of the short strip mall that’s home for the clinic, as the police car rounds the corner and accelerates toward him. There’re more cars in here than he expected at this hour and pulls up in front of the doors. He hadn’t put on his seatbelt to begin with, so it doesn’t slow him down when he jumps from the car and rushes inside, shoving the swinging glass door open and banging it against the wall.

  “Sir!” a stout-looking woman wearing blue scrubs and sitting behind a short, authoritarian counter says as Dave’s eyes dart around the surprisingly full lobby. He spots what he needs a few feet away and rushes to it.

  “Sir! You can’t just take that!” the woman yells with a heavy Slavic accent as police lights begin washing through the clinic’s windows, illuminating everything in blue waves. Dave grabs the handles of the wheelchair and spins it around, banging the footrests off the glass entrance and pushing the chair in front of him and out the door. Pam already has her door open having surrendered to the police. The uniformed officers appear to be grasping the bigger picture as they re-holster their tasers.

  “Ma’am,” one of the officers says to Pam as he helps her from the car.

  “Sir. If you could please keep a steady hold on the wheelchair,” the other officer says firmly to Dave while reaching down to flip on the brake for one of the wheels.

  “Officers! Stop that man!” the woman from inside yells, having finally made it out from behind her receptionist’s fortress of solitude.

  “We have everything under control, ma’am,” one of the officer’s replies as he and his partner pull the bleeding woman from the car and gently set her in the wheelchair.

  “Please hold the door open for us,” he tells Helga from the clinic as he comes around and nudges Dave out of the way. “We’ve got it from here, sir,” his partner says. “But don’t leave until we’ve had a chance to get your statement.” The officer driving the wheelchair gives it a shove and the chair pivots in place, driving a deep scratch into the paint on the lower panel of Dave’s car door, with one of the footrests.

  “Hey!” Dave shouts, reaching down to flip the brake off the same officer had set a few seconds ago.

  “Sorry about that, sir,” the officer says. “We’ll be sure to add that to our report.”

  “Does that mean the department’s going to pay for the repair?” Dave asks.

  “Most likely not,” his partner replies as the duo pushes past him and into the clinic.

  Ninety minutes later, the sun has peeked up over the horizon. Starsky & Hutch, having recorded the details and taken their statements, have left the scene. Dave and Pam have convinced Fraulein Helga, from the receptionist’s desk, they’re not signing shit or being financially responsible for fuck all. They’ve moved the car from in front of the clinic and are sitting quietly in one of the parking spaces as Dave smokes.

  “Well, that was something,” Pam says, breaking the silence.

  “It was that,” Dave replies, looking in the rearview mirror at the brown stains smeared across the backseat beginning to turn crusty. He takes another drag before tossing the butt out the open window and looking down at his shirtless chest. “I think I’m going to suggest we skip the store this morning,” he says before turning the key in the ignition.

  “We’re out of coffee,” Pam reminds him.

  “We’ll come back later,” he tells her as he backs out of the stall and heads for home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “The first reports are coming in now,” Staff Sergeant Jorje Riguez reports to Major Carolyn Brooks, standing in the communications room. Riguez intentionally left off the obligatory “sir” because he could never read how higher-ranking female officers reacted to that term of respect. A few he’d run into in the past had dressed him down in front of his platoon for the infraction. Wanting to know if they looked like a sir to him. Others had insisted he use the moniker, telling him they’d earned that respect. Now he just avoided it unless they insisted one way or the other. Fortunately, Major Brooks had never forced the issue in the last three years he’d been reporting to her.

  “And what are they saying?” Brooks replies, fighting the urge to nervously bite her lower lip. A habit she’s suppressed for the last twelve years. Her own major at the time, a hardcore lifer named Charles Beaurite had told her, “No soldier is going to like taking orders from a woman. Especially one who reminds them of their little sister and looks like she’s always second-guessing her decisions and ready to jump out of her skin.” The old man had been right, as he always had been, and she knew that single piece of advice had played a part in her last three promotions. She still reported to Beaurite, now the Bird Colonel in command of U.S. Army Base Bolivar in Southeastern Ohio.

  “They’re pretty sketchy, Major,” Riguez answers, avoiding the gender issue out of habit.

&nb
sp; “Sketchy how?” she asks.

  “Forgive my language, Major, but some of them sound like pure bullshit.”

  “Staff Sergeant. I’m going to ask this question again and this time, I want a straight, clear answer. Understood?” Brooks commands.

  “Yes, Major,” Riguez barks, snapping to attention.

  “What are the reports?” Brooks asks, speaking each word slowly through clenched teeth.

  “We’ve received numerous reports throughout the night, of rabid dogs attacking people,” Riguez says in a loud voice, keeping his eyes focused on the far wall. “The first report was of a lone attack occurring sometime around fifteen-hundred hours yesterday. It happened in the Hilliard area, just outside of Columbus. The original reports state the animal showed no fear of people and was highly more aggressive than what is normally seen in rabid dogs.”

  “I know all that,” Brooks says. “That’s what prompted us to follow the incident. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Right, Major. That first attack was like setting off a starting gun for the others. Since then, there have been multiple reports of packs attacking large groups of people in public places and single dog attacks all over the area. Spreading out and filtering into the Columbus area. We’ve just started receiving reports of family pets turning on their owners. One minute they’re taking Fido out for a walk in the park, and the next the bastard suddenly goes rabid and bites their owner in the middle of playing fetch.”

  “Are the attacks limited to a specific breed? Something we can identify and contain?”

  “No, Major. Our reports say it’s all breeds and we’ve started receiving a few reports of cats doing the same thing,” Riguez answers.

  “Are local authorities and Animal Control able to keep on top of this?” Brooks asks.

  “Not a chance, Major. The number of reported attacks surpassed their capacity for containment about fourteen hours after the first encounter was reported.”

  Brooks is already familiar with the preliminary reports on the infection. The first case was identified northeast of Toledo, Ohio in the small town of Bryan. That was the initial strain when the virus was just getting ramped up. The first animal was a twelve-year-old spaniel mix named Chandler, of all things. The little bastard’s owners were the typical, middle-aged yuppies with too much annual income and no children to spend it on. Meaning, Chandler lived like Lord Chandler and the couple spared no expense for their little darling. They fed the dog all that high-end, designer dog food when they weren’t cooking meals for the damned thing. Taking it to the vet when it had so much as a tiny eye-booger from sleeping and insisting their vet prescribe doggie-antibiotics.

  According to the records from the vet, Chandler had been prescribed a total of forty-three separate medications during his short, pampered existence. This didn’t even include all the required, obligatory and unnecessary vaccinations they’d subjected their only fur-baby to. But it did include two daily scripts for anxiety meds and another to treat the high cholesterol for their wee beastie. So, it came as little surprise when the couple, a Mr. & Mrs. Manchester, rushed canine-zero back to the vet when they reported the king of the house had a slight cough. The vet, a Dr. William Faress, went through his usual, and now well-practiced, motions with the couple. He drew a precautionary sample of blood, after applying a topical, numbing ointment at the Manchester’s demand, and sent it off to the lab. After performing a cursory examination of the dog, he assured them the cough they heard was most likely due to a stray hair in the dog’s throat, or something equally as benign. But the couple was planning a trip to Zanesville in two days to see the wife’s family and did not want their tiny bundle of fur experiencing any discomfort during the three-and-a-half-hour car ride across Ohio. The couple told the vet, should anything happen to their sweet Chandler, all they’d have to do is convince a court the vet had refused to treat the dog when they came to him in their hour of need. Then they’d ruin him. So, despite the vet’s better judgment, he prescribed another course of high-spectrum antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, under duress, to avoid the Manchester’s threats of a lawsuit.

  Two days later, the couple’s vehicle was found deep in the trees along Highway 33, just outside of Dublin, Ohio. The Subaru Outback was wrapped around a tree and burning out of control.

  Once the flames were extinguished, and after a thorough investigation, the Ohio State Patrol wrote off the accident as follows. Mr. Manchester fell asleep at the wheel after driving from his home for nearly two hours and drove off the road, crashing into the large oak. The authorities say the couple rode that roller coaster off the road and into the trees, all while being safely strapped into their seatbelts at the time of the accident and were killed on impact. There was no sign of their beloved Chandler and the State Patrol presumed the pet had been thrown from the car and died in the surrounding brush, but no search was ever made for the dog.

  At some point, dripping gas from the fuel line caused by the accident, ignited on the hot engine and the vehicle caught fire, burning the couple’s remains. A check of Mr. Manchester’s blood for drugs or alcohol came back negative but the coroner reported the couple showed signs of multiple small animal bites. The OSP explained this as having taken place during the short span of time between the couple’s crash and the car catching fire.

  In the meantime, the results from the dog’s blood work had come back from the lab the day after the couple’s visit, but the vet put off reading them until the following morning. It wasn’t until that afternoon when Dr. Faress finally did read the report, showing serious signs of some unknown form of a rabies-related virus, he began feverishly trying to reach the couple by phone, wanting them to bring Chandler in to be placed under quarantine for observation. He was most likely less concerned with the animal’s well-being and more interested in saving his practice and any future earnings, from the threatened lawsuit. But by then it was too late.

  It was the results from the dog’s tests that had pinged on the military’s radar, causing them to begin their own, quiet investigation into the incident and to prepare for a worst-case scenario.

  Brooks rubs her tired eyes because she hadn’t slept in the last twenty-two hours since this shit-storm started, and the way things looked, she didn’t expect to get any much-needed rest any time soon.

  “Local agencies just aren’t equipped to handle this number of animal attacks in such a short period of time,” Riguez says, bringing Major Brooks back from her thoughts.

  “Have the local authorities been able to capture any of the infected animals?” Brooks asks.

  “At least one,” Riguez answers.

  “And…?” Brooks says, not wanting to start this bullshit again.

  “That’s where the reports start getting weird, Major. The first thing Animal Control did was take one of the dogs they managed to corner and muzzle to the closest vet for testing.”

  “Testing?”

  “For rabies, Major. It’s standard procedure in animal attacks. It was early in the event and the escalation in attacks hadn’t been reported at that time,” Riguez answers.

  “Understood,” Brooks says. “Continue.”

  “Apparently, the local vet took one look at the dog and decided to put it to sleep before starting the tests. This again is standard procedure for dangerous animals. The thing is, Major, the dog didn’t go down. It didn’t even yawn. They had the dog restrained on an exam table and shot it up three times.”

  “But the animal didn’t die?”

  “Just the opposite, Major. Reports indicate the animal appeared to become more aggressive with each injection. Eventually, the vet ordered the Animal Control officer who brought the dog in to shoot it.”

  “Seems like a reasonable decision,” Brooks nods.

  “Only that didn’t work either,” Riguez reports.

  “What the fuck?” Brooks says, slipping out of her normal, disciplined composure.

  “Not at first, anyway. The vet told the officer to avoid shootin
g the animal in the head so an accurate test for rabies could be performed, so he put the first bullet into the dog’s chest.”

  “The first bullet?” Brooks asks, regaining her typical composure. “Any chance he missed with the first shot?”

  “Not likely,” Riguez answers. “He’s a twenty-year veteran with Animal Control. He’s had to put down seven animals in the field with his service piece during his career. I’m pretty sure he could hit a restrained dog from a few feet away.”

  “I see,” Brooks says.

  “The report is, the dog became enraged. Teeth snapping, convulsing, that sort of thing.”

  “Any chance the animal was just on autopilot, like when you cut the head off a chicken and it continues to flap around for a few more minutes?”

  “I suppose it’s possible, but not according to the report, Major. Apparently, the hellhound began struggling so violently, it started to slip out of the restrains in an attempt to get to the officer. The officer naturally panicked and fired three more, tightly grouped rounds into the dog.”

  “Is the animal dead or not?” Brooks asks, frustrated from feeling like she’s still pulling the information out of her subordinated a single piece at a time.

  “Yes, Major. But it took four bullets to the chest to do it.”

  “What caliber of gun was the officer firing? Standard issue?”

  “Standard issue, nine-millimeter sidearm,” Riguez replies with a nod.

  “And we’re certain it took four rounds to put the dog down?”

  “That’s what’s being reported, Major. But we can’t get one-hundred percent confirmation. The vet had the animal incinerated as a precaution after his examination.”

  “Have there been any human fatalities?”

  “None reported yet. But this strain is so virulent, anyone bitten can be considered infected. Vaccination supplies for people are already running low and only seem to slow the progression of the infection. Human fatalities are an inevitable conclusion at this point.”