The F*cked Series (Book 1): Uppercase

by Gleason, R. K.

  “Good point,” Joe chimes in.

  “Fine,” she concedes. “But it’ll probably go right to voicemail.”

  “Like he ever checks that,” Joe adds, not helping the situation in the slightest.

  A few seconds later they all hear the call and Mike’s phone ringing on the other end of the line. On the second ring, Dave shoots Pam an, I told you so expression, causing her to scowl back at him. By the fifth ring, they all expect it to go to voicemail like Pam predicted and they’re all shocked when it picks up on the eighth.

  “Here!” they all hear Mike say, sounding like he’s away from the phone and speaking to someone else. A second later, Lynn comes on the line and Pam motions for everyone in the car to keep quiet.

  “Hey sweetie. Thank God you called!” Lynn says.

  “Mom! Are you and Mike okay?” Pam asks.

  Mike is Pam’s stepfather, but he’s the guy who helped raise her and was always around when she needed him. During her teens, their relationship had been tenuous, like all teens with their parents, but she loved him just the same and considered him to be her dad. Although, like their own kids, she’d never gotten out of the habit of calling him Mike and he never thought a thing about it.

  “We’re fine, sort of…” Lynn replies.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well… Your father took Apollo out this morning, and everything was fine. He was sniffing around like he usually does. Taking his sweet time doing his business in the yard.”

  “Mike?” Pam asks, hoping she didn’t have to add dementia to their growing list of problems.

  “No, honey. Apollo,” Lynn replies. “Anyway. A couple hours later, he started acting a little strange, so Mike decided to take him out again. He no sooner got the door open and Apollo turned on him. I’ve never seen anything like it! He was growling and snarling. Apollo, not your father,” Lynn adds.

  “So, what did you guys do?”

  “The only thing we could do. We ran for the basement and Apollo chased us all the way down.”

  “Leaving your cell phone on the kitchen counter,” Pam says, putting the pieces together.

  “Did you try to call? I’m sorry I missed it. You know, I have the same problem when I try to call any of your kids. I think they’re…”

  “Mom!” Pam shouts, reconsidering the threat of dementia. “Stay with me. Are you guys okay?”

  “Like I said. We’re fine, but we had to go all the way through the storeroom in the back of the basement before we could get a door closed fast enough to keep Apollo out. The next time I see that vet of ours, and he tells me if Apollo lost some weight he’d be more active, I’m going to tell him a thing or two.”

  “Mom! Please!” Pam interrupts. “Where are you two now?”

  “Still in the basement, sweetie. Apollo was on the other side of the door, trying to chew his way through it, which we’re going to have to paint.” Lynn says the last part away from the phone, the comment being intended for Mike’s ears, before continuing. “Your father started piling up anything he could find against the door. I kept telling him the door opens out, but he just kept on stacking. It’s a good thing he did though. If he hadn’t, his golf bag wouldn’t have been on top and we wouldn’t have ever heard his phone ring.”

  “Where’s Apollo now?” Dave asks, unable to maintain his silence.

  “Hey Dave!” Lynn says. “How you doing, kiddo?”

  “Where’s Apollo?” he repeats.

  “Oh, he’s still outside the door. He’s not trying to chew through it anymore, but we can still hear him occasionally on the other side. Hey! Why don’t I put you guys on speakerphone, so Mike can hear us and we can all talk? Mike! How do I get this stupid, old thing on speaker?” Lynn asks away from the phone.

  “How do you keep her off of it?” Dave mutters as he creeps into the five-lane, cluster fuck of a freeway interchange.

  “Mom! Mom!” Pam shouts.

  “Hold on a second, honey,” Lynn replies. “Your father is telling me how to do this. I don’t see a button shaped like a speaker… No. You said a button that looks like a speaker, not one with a speaker on it! There’s a difference.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Dave sighs.

  “Well then, you do it!” Lynn finally says.

  “Pam. Can you hear me?” Mike asks after an excruciating moment of fumbling with the phone.

  “Yeah, Mike,” she answers.

  “Is Dave with you?” he asks.

  “I told you he was!” Lynn reminds him.

  “He’s sitting right next to me, in the car,” Pam says.

  “Can you put him on the phone?” Mike asks.

  “We’re on Bluetooth, Mike,” she explains.

  “So, he can’t come to the phone?”

  “We’re on speakerphone, Grampa,” Joe says from the back.

  “Hey, sweetie! I didn’t know you were there!” Lynn chirps.

  Pam hits mute and asks, “Is she talking to me or Joe?”

  “The sweetie thing threw me off too,” Dakota says before Pam unmutes the mic.

  “Hey Gramma,” Joe says.

  “How you doing, Joe? I haven’t talked to you for a while,” Lynn says as Dave fights the urge to bash his skull against the steering wheel.

  “I’m right here, Mike,” he says loud enough to end the reunion.

  “Hey Dave,” Mike replies.

  “Is everything alright?”

  “For now. Listen. We’re stuck down here, and things are going to get bad pretty quickly if Apollo doesn’t leave. For starters, there’s no bathroom in the storeroom. Only a floor drain. I’m fine with that for now, but Lynn’s not happy about it. And, sooner or later, we’re going to need something more substantial than a hole with a welded-on drain cover.”

  “Yeah, but things could be worse,” Dave says, trying to make things seem not quite so bad.

  “Did I mention we don’t have any food or water? Or that this phone is almost dead and there might be another dog with Apollo?”

  “And, you’ve gone right from Sorta Fucked to the high end of Uppercase Fucked,” Dave confirms.

  “We could sure use your help,” Mike says.

  “Mike… We’re a hundred and thirty miles from you. It’ll take at least two hours to get there in this traffic, if it thins out. Let me think of something.”

  “Like I said. The battery on this phone isn’t going to last mu—”

  “Mike! Mom!” Pam shouts.

  “Fuck this!” Dave says, pushing the button to engage the all-wheel drive on the Rogue. Turning his right signal on, like a conscientious driver, Dave checks his mirrors and looks to the right to see if there’s an opening. The vehicle to their right is a black Escalade, which Dave is certain only comes in that color. The side windows are heavily tinted, making it impossible to see the driver’s face, but Dave can see a pair of hands gripping the top of the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. Ahead of the SUV is an older, box-type delivery truck with a roll-up door in the back. The Escalade doesn’t move when the delivery truck creeps forward, so Dave rolls their car to the right, hoping to capitalize on the asshole’s lack of attention and get over another lane before struggling for the next one. But the huge SUV lurches forward at the last second bringing his front bumper even with Dave’s front fender.

  “What the fuck?” Dave asks no one in particular.

  “What an asshole,” Joe says, staring at the other driver through his window.

  Dave waves a thank you to the guy, playing the politely stupid card, and turns the wheel harder, rolling farther into the guy’s lane. The other vehicle jumps forward again, bringing his bumper within inches of the Rogue’s door. Dave can see through the windshield and notices the guy sitting motionless as traffic crawls forward again, never looking their direction. Dave can tell through the layers of glass separating them, the man’s skin color looks good. His head is lulling forward, but his hands are still gripping the top of his wheel. Dave turns farther, trying to creep in a little
more to get past him and into the next lane, suddenly feeling uneasy about the position he’s put them all in. When they inch ahead, the guy in the Escalade seems to snap to attention, his eyes locking on their car, and slams into Dave’s passenger side. The impact pins the Rogue between the grill of the giant SUV and the box truck on the other side. Dave knows their car is no match for the larger vehicle and sees the box truck’s lights flash, indicating the driver has put the damn thing into park and is coming around to investigate the rear end collision.

  “Mother fucker!” Dave shouts as Pam and Joe instinctively move away from their doors.

  “Look at his face!” Pam yells, pointing through her window.

  Inside the Escalade, the driver’s face has contorted into an expression of rage. Fluid runs from his eyes and mouth as his teeth gnash together. The guy lets up on the gas and starts jerking violently at his seatbelt trying to free himself from the restraint. At the same time, he’s also kicked open his door, driving it into the side of the car that was behind their Rogue, causing that driver to shift into park and open his own door. Apparently, he plans to give Mr. Escalade a piece of his mind but climbs back in and locks his doors when he gets a good look at the berserker clawing at the seatbelt to get to him.

  “What the fuck were you thinking, buddy?” the guy driving the box-truck says as he comes around to the back to check for damage. His eyes meet Dave’s at the same moment the driver of the Escalade frees himself and jumps out his door, landing on the asphalt like a huge predator. His eyes pass from the car to his left, to the Rogue, and finally lands on the delivery driver who’s still outside his vehicle. He starts to scramble trying to figure out a way to get past the obstructions and get to the delivery driver.

  “Get back inside your truck and lock the doors!” Dave yells to him as the infected man springs into motion and Dave stomps on his own gas pedal. Metal screams and paint peels off in long curls as Dave tries to force their trapped car between the two larger vehicles.

  “You’re really messing up your car,” Joe says.

  “The cop with the wheelchair already scratched the paint, so…” Dave replies. He jerks the wheel back and forth and presses harder on the gas pedal, trying to break free as the tires begin to spin and smoke.

  “You hit a cop in a wheelchair?” Dakota asks.

  “No! He was pushing the wheelchair with a woman in it,” Dave says, gritting his teeth as he shifts into reverse, planning to back up to break the hold from the other vehicles.

  “You hit a cop, pushing a wheelchair with a woman sitting in it?” Joe asks.

  Before Dave can reply, a loud thump comes from the rear passenger end of the Rogue. The berserker from the Escalade is trying to clamber over Dave’s bumper, his sights locked on the delivery driver. Dave hits the gas and stomps the brakes a split second later, throwing the guy on his rear bumper off balance and onto the pavement. The guy screams in frustration, slamming his fists onto the blacktop. The delivery driver, having finally put all the pieces together, turns and runs back to the cab of his truck. Horns begin honking from behind them as other drivers, unaware of the shit unfolding at the present, just want to keep moving forward like everyone else. The delivery driver gets to his cab, slams the door closed and lurches forward, trying to escape his closing attacker in the eight feet that’s cleared between him and the pickup in front of him. This frees the Rogue and Dave stomps on the gas again, forcing the gap between the vehicles wider as he cuts straight across the two lanes. Glass shatters into the cab of the delivery truck as the infected Escalade driver punches his fist through the safety glass and grabs the terrified driver.

  “What are you doing?” Pam asks as Dave bounces his car up and onto the shoulder of the onramp.

  “Getting us the fuck out of here! What’s it look like?” he replies.

  “You’d better buckle up, boys,” Pam tells them as she faces forward and braces her hands against the dash. The front of their car bucks as they speed across the shoulder and hit the immense grassy area separating the freeway divisions heading in the four different directions.

  “There’s another onramp about a mile up. We can probably slip on there and merge into traffic,” she tells Dave.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he says. Wrestling with the wheel and angling the bouncing vehicle to the right, Dave heads toward where the lanes for North 71 continue past the interchange.

  “Really? Because your right turn signal is still on from your stealthy lane change back there?” she tells him.

  “Nah, I’ve got this,” he replies. Flipping the signal off, Dave gives Pam a wink and blows her a kiss as he steers toward the gully passing under 71 on the left, rather than the level ground off to its right.

  “Are you sure?” Pam asks, giving up on the dash and grabbing the oh-shit handle above her door with both hands.

  “I said, I’ve got this,” he repeats with a little less confidence and conviction as they drive down into the gully. The front of the Rogue plows up sections of grass and dirt as they careen down the slope.

  “Holy shit!” Dave shouts, cranking the wheel hard to avoid a small group of trees.

  “It’s not like they just appeared!” Pam shouts. “They’re fucking trees!”

  “I thought he was heading for them on purpose,” Dakota says, having finally gotten himself and Bongo properly restrained.

  “Well, I wasn’t,” Dave replies, scraping the passenger doors on a low-hanging branch before snapping it off at the trunk.

  “Are you sure?” Joe asks, lurching away from his window in case the glass shatters.

  “You’re fine,” Dave assures them as the Rogue starts rolling up the other side of the gully and closer to the freeway. “I told you I had this,” he says as he starts to pick up speed.

  “What are you doing now?” Pam asks, not releasing her grip on the handle.

  “Going to save your folks, babe.”

  As their vehicle accelerates, Dave drives parallel to the fast lane of North 71, starting to merge in from the left. Traffic is heavy, but it’s moving along at around forty as Dave comes over the median edge, like he’s skipping the wake from a boat. He paces the traffic, driving along the shoulder and turns on his right blinker, as two military, transport planes bank across the sky over them, swinging around for landing at the Columbus Airport.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Major Brooks,” Captain Walker says, saluting the senior officer as she exits the back of the military plane. Hers is the last of the transports to land and already her troops from the other three are assembling on the tarmac in formation as the Medium Tactical Vehicles start rumbling in. Three of the MTVs have been fitted for troop transport and the forth has been stripped to carry the extra gear and supplies.

  “I’m formally taking command, by orders from Colonel Beaurite,” Brooks replies, returning his salute. “This is Sergeant Nichols. He’s with me, and if he tells you to jump, consider it an order from me.”

  “Yes, Major,” he replies, standing at attention after giving the Sergeant a curt nod.

  “As you were, Captain,” she says, allowing her junior officer to stand easy. “I need an update.”

  “Can I speak freely, Major?” Captain Walker asks, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his camo pockets and fishing out a lighter.

  “If it’ll save time,” Brooks replies as Walker offers her a smoke and she shakes her head, declining the offer.

  “I think we’re basically deep in the heart of fucked, Major,” he says, lighting his smoke and drawing a deep drag.

  “Would you like to elaborate Captain, or is that your professional, military appraisal?”

  “Yes, and yes,” Walker replies, exhaling a lungful of smoke off to the side so he doesn’t blow it in the Major’s face. “We have dozens of three-man teams, sweeping a twenty-five-mile area around ground zero. That stretches well past the Columbus city limits to the direct southeast and into the surrounding suburbs. And we’ve got blockades on most of the main roads
leading in and out of the area.”

  “What are the three-man-teams sweeping for?” she asks.

  “Things to shoot at, mostly,” Walker says. “I’ve given orders to shoot any stray dog, cat, raccoon or cuddly monkey they come across, on sight. If they see so much as a squirrel, I want it dead.”

  “What about people they find?” Nichols asks.

  “Quarantine,” the Captain replies.

  “How many do you have so far,” Brooks asks.

  “In our current holding area, about a thousand which is about two hundred over capacity. We’ve got some of the National Guard troops busting ass to get more fencing up before the trucks bring more in.”

  “What are you doing with the infected?” Nichols asks.

  “The same,” Walker says. “We don’t have time to sort them out so we’re considering them all to be infected. No friendlies,” he adds, crushing his smoke under his boot.

  “There won’t be if you keep them all confined together,” Nichols says.

  “Where would you suggest we get the manpower to test them all, Sergeant?” Walker asks, pulling rank without actually coming out and telling Nichols to keep his opinions to himself.

  “I don’t know, Captain,” Brooks says, ending the dick measuring before either of them has any more chances of whipping them out. “But are you fucking stupid?” she asks Walker. “If just one person in there is carrying the virusite, they could infect scores before they’re discovered. Maybe hundreds.”

  “And they told two friends… and they told two friends…” Nichols mutters.

  “Can it, Sergeant!” Brooks snaps. “Captain. Take a team of your men, I don’t care where in the hell you get them from, and start sorting the ones you have.”

  “Sorting them, how… Major?” Walker asks.

  “Sergeant Nichols…” she says, gesturing with her open hand in a, be my guest fashion.

  “For starters, we need someplace bigger,” Nichols says.

  “We’ve started preparing to commandeer the soccer stadium as another location. We can hold about twenty thousand in the seats alone, and double that if we’re forced to,” Captain Walker replies.