Cordyceps Rising: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by JE Gurley

  Disturbed by his stark image, he backed away, crashed into the door, and, in a fit of rage, threw the glass he was holding at the mirror. Tiny shattered images of him cascaded into the sink from the broken mirror. The sound of breaking glass thundered in his ears, echoing as if in a cavern. He clamped his hands over his ears, but the sound didn’t diminish. He raced around the room clawing frantically at the floral-print wallpaper, tearing it off in thin strips with his fingernails. He jerked a picture of an ocean scene from the wall above the bed and smashed it to the floor, grinding his heel into the broken glass. Exhausted, but not satiated by his orgy of destruction, he collapsed on the bed, panting. His brain was on fire, threatening to spill out through his ears. He pressed his hands to each side of his head and screamed.

  He didn’t know if he slept or if his mind had simply stopped functioning for a while. When he opened his eyes, it was full dark outside. The room, though spacious, closed in on him, smothering him. He needed air, open space, some place high above the din and the light. He threw open the door to his room and raced down the corridor, banging on doors and yanking pictures from the walls. At the elevator, he overturned a marble table, smashing a large flower-filled oriental vase on the tiled floor. A rage rose in his gullet like bile. He bit back on it but could not stop the scream that ripped from his throat, a wail of anguish and anger that echoed down the corridors.

  The elevator door opened. Two men dressed in business suits stepped out. Engaged in conversation, they paid him no heed, brushing by him as if he did not exist. One glanced at the overturned table and the pool of water from the shattered vase, but quickly turned his attention back to his companion. Roger growled at him. A blind fury born of dark images moved him to action. He leapt upon the man and beat him savagely with his fists. When the man’s companion tried to help, Roger bit his arm, grinding his teeth in the man’s flesh until blood sprayed them both. The man screamed and fell. Roger kicked him in the head until he no longer moved. He then chased after the first man who had used Roger’s attack on his friend to try to escape.

  He caught the man outside the room containing the ice machine. The man’s high-pitched screams drilled into Roger’s befuddled mind like burning augers, searing flesh and burning away who he was, what he had been. He was no longer human, but an animal. He clamped his hands to his head and moaned, but something inside drove him back to the creature in front of him. The man pleaded, but the words held no meaning to Roger, just more noise pounding in his head. His hands throttled the man’s neck and twisted. He continued to twist long after the man’s face had turned blue and his jaw had fallen open. His lust for blood still not satisfied, he pounded the man’s head against the ice machine until blood, pieces of bone, and bits of brain dripped down his arms. Ice, summoned by the pounding, filled the recess for ice buckets and spilled onto the floor around his feet, joining the blood staining the tile.

  Curious heads drawn by the screams thrust through opened doors. He ran from their stares. His body burned from within. He felt as if he were going to spontaneously combust; become a human torch. He shed his clothes as he stumbled down the corridor. He opened the door to the stairwell and ran upwards, yearning for some place high above the clamoring din. He kicked open the roof door and walked to the edge of the roof. Standing there, staring down fourteen floors to the swimming pool, he wanted to jump, to end the pain, but found he couldn’t; not from fear of dying, but because his mind, no longer his own, wouldn’t allow it. A tear trickled down his cheek, followed by a tiny tendril of mycelium fiber licking at the moisture. Frozen to the spot, unable to force his muscles to move, he wept. Tears ran unfelt down his cheeks, their moisture feeding the tiny growths pushing through his pores. He knew he was dying. He would soon become food, a host for the monster growing inside him. Remembering the horribly grotesque bodies of his colleagues in Belize, he wanted to shudder, but his mind denied him even that small release.

  2

  July 1, Miami, FL –

  Dead Man Standing. That was something Detective Kyle Bane didn’t see every day, and in his job with Miami’s Special Investigation Squad, he had seen some bizarre things. During his six months with the squad, they had taken down a Haitian drug lord with a penchant for voodoo, busted a money-laundering scheme involving two college freshmen, and solved a kidnapping case where the husband had locked his wife in a secret basement room to prevent her from leaving him. It was more rewarding than his first five years on the force, busting pimps, hassling two-bit drug dealers, and chasing purse snatchers in Hialeah. However, phrases like ‘Dead Man Standing’ made him realize what a rookie he was.

  Two uniformed officers had been first on the scene, but what they found had stymied them. Never having witnessed such a bizarre death, they contacted the SIS. By the time Kyle had arrived, the roof of the Airport Hilton was swarming with white-clad CDC people, led by a woman wearing a red hazmat suit that set her apart from the others. So far, she hadn’t been very communicative. Since his own experience with naked dead men sprouting what looked like mushrooms from every orifice in their body was severely limited, he allowed the CDC people to do their jobs. From his brief glimpse of the corpse, he was glad that had not eaten breakfast. Even so, his stomach grumbled.

  Two men in white hazmat suits scurried around the roof spraying every surface with a chemical from pressurized backpack canisters. He didn’t know what was in the tanks, but he was glad the wind was blowing away from him. If they needed protective gear, it had to be some serious stuff. He frowned as four others placed the corpse into a hard plastic cadaver transport container. Once they had secured the lid, they lifted it by its recessed handles and carried it to the stairwell. He didn’t like anyone interfering with his crime scene.

  His mind was still fuzzy from lack of sleep, but not too dead to question how the Centers for Disease Control people had arrived so quickly and taken control of the scene.

  “Where are you taking my body?” He posed his question at the woman in red.

  She cocked an eyebrow and glared at him through the clear plastic visor of her hazmat suit. The loose suit draped over her body like a potato sack, but bunched up in enough places to indicate a few curves beneath it. It was an old habit, sizing up people he met by judging their potentials as adversaries. He pictured her as svelte, athletic, and able to stand her ground if push came to shove. Her nametag read ‘Marli Henry, MD – Epidemiologist, CDC.’

  “Your body?” she asked. Her voice, filtered by the hood, was tinny.

  “Yeah, my victim, or whatever the hell he is,” he said in his cockiest tone.

  Doctor Henry jotted a few notes on a laptop ensconced in its own mini-hazmat suit before answering. “We’re taking him to a CDC quarantine site at MIA, and then we’re transporting him back to Atlanta.”

  “Before you whisk him off to Miami International Airport, I need some information.”

  Her condescending look immediately set his hackles rising. She might rank higher than he did, but he didn’t like to be ignored or dismissed, especially by a woman wearing a giant red condom. “Any information you need will be provided by your superiors through the proper channels. This man was not murdered; therefore you have no jurisdiction.”

  As she turned to leave, he stepped in front of her. “Hold on a minute, lady. You don’t know what happened to him. Unless he tried to smuggle mushrooms into the country in his ass, I don’t think this could be classified as death by natural causes.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “I am not lady anything.” Her chilly tone almost gave him frostbite. “My name is Doctor Henry.” She sighed and relaxed her stance. “Look, I understand your concern, Detective Bane. Now, try to understand mine. You, the two officers who were first on the scene, and everyone else who had contact with this man will require quarantine until we can determine if what he has is infectious. That means tracing his movements since his arrival two days ago from Belize. If he is infectious, how many people do you think he might possibly have infecte
d since then?”

  He understood her dilemma, if not her attitude. He suspected she was trying to lull him into feeling sympathy for her plight, just to shrug off his demands. It wasn’t working. Instead, he saw an opportunity to insert himself back on the case she was trying to steal from him. In addition to the corpse’s fellow passengers, she would have to access the manifests of every flight in MIA during that same period, crosscheck their destinations, and determine what visitors might have met any passengers at the airport. It was a monumental task.

  “I can help. I’m familiar with the procedure.”

  She stared at him for a moment before nodding. “All right, but you’ll have to do it in quarantine.” She motioned with her hand, and one of the men in a hazmat suit hurried over carrying three more suits. “You and the two officers will have to put these on.”

  He stared at the white suit with disdain. It looked like a pair of hooded pajamas with feet. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Do I look as if I’m in the mood for humor?” She narrowed her eyes at him, an intimidating look she had probably practiced in front of a mirror, but he had witnessed such a look by men who had no qualms about cutting off your head and spitting down your throat. Still, it conveyed her meaning. “Now, put it on or I’ll call for three more quarantine containers.”

  The idea of being sealed into a hazmat suit seemed less claustrophobic than traveling in an oversized coffin. Besides, the two officers were watching him to see how he handled the situation. He had lost the argument and she knew it. Better to give in gracefully. He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, you win.”

  He struggled into the suit, and one of the men in white helped him secure the hood over his head. He was a little annoyed that the two uniformed officers had less difficulty than he did. He felt a little like the deep-sea diver in the bottom of his small aquarium. He moved his arms and legs experimentally.

  “A bit tight in the crotch,” he complained.

  He caught a brief smile on Doctor Henry’s lips before she quickly replaced it with a more serious look. “You won’t need to wear it very long, just until we reach the quarantine unit.”

  “By what skullduggery did you people find out about this man and arrive so promptly?” he asked and watched her face for a reaction. Sure enough, a slight twitch of her lips and a furrowed brow gave her away. “And while we’re on it, how did you know that he arrived from Belize? What am I missing? His luggage and passport is still in his room. I checked before I came up. The desk clerk just supplied his name from his discarded clothing and wallet.”

  She glanced at her laptop, buying time as she tried to formulate a plausible answer. “Someone in your office informed us.”

  An obvious lie. “Oh, I doubt that. We’re efficient, but we don’t work that fast. No one had a clue about the condition of the body except …” He paused as his mind worked furiously. The pieces began to fall into place. “You were monitoring calls. You were expecting this,” he accused.

  “Don’t be silly. I …”

  He quickly cut her off. “Don’t deny it. Something happened in Belize, something that reached your attention. You were looking for this man, or at least someone from Belize.”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “You just did.”

  “Detective Bane, I don’t have time for jurisdictional squabbles. If you wish to help, you may, under my direction, of course. You may prove useful. If not, we’ll determine whether or not we can release you from quarantine and allow you to return to your job of pummeling drug lords.”

  How had she known about that? Kyle straightened his stance and looked at her defiantly. “I merely defended myself. He had a knife.”

  “I understand the knife ended up protruding from Mr. Santiago’s buttocks.”

  He tried to suppress a grin. “Well, he should’ve been more careful where he sat.”

  This time she smiled and allowed it to linger. The smile softened her features. He could see the woman that she probably was when not investigating fuzzy dead men standing, or trying to slice the balls off overly inquisitive detectives. “Perhaps so.” She turned and looked out over the city. The gray, early morning skies added a touch of gloom to her words as she said, “I hope we’re not too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  She ignored his question and began walking to the roof exit. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face him. He pressed his facemask against hers.

  “What do you mean?”

  She shook her head and pulled away. “I can’t tell you yet. Please be patient. We might need men like you.”

  He was confused. First, she tried to brush him off. Now, she needed him. “Need me for what?”

  “For the end of the world.”

  He searched her face for some hint of humor, some indication that she was playing with him, but he saw only intense dread.

  “You can’t just say something like that and walk away,” he said.

  “I’ll explain later, after your quarantine.”

  “You mean, if I don’t turn out like Mr. Curry.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He followed her to the door, his stomach churning like a volcano ready to spew its load of lava. Puking in a hazmat suit was not a good way to begin a day.

  * * *

  He had once visited the quarantine area at Miami International Airport during a drug case. It was a small, unadorned room on the third floor of one of the terminal wings, and he envisioned beating at the shrinking walls with his fists after a couple of days of confinement. He was surprised when after whisking him through the guarded northeastern gate of the airport, the van pulled up beside two large white tents. The area around the tents was a beehive of activity, but the airport was not. The runways lay silent. No jets taxied for take-off or circled the skies above the city awaiting permission to land. Jets parked at terminals were empty, baggage carousels motionless. The silence was ominous, disconcerting. The busiest international airport in the country was closed.

  “You shut down MIA?” he asked, incredulous that such a thing was even possible. Miami International handled almost 73,000 flights per year, nearly 40 million passengers. The logistical nightmare created by shutting it down would send ripples throughout the flying world.

  “We had to,” she answered almost apologetically. She waved a hand toward the nearest tent. “We’re observing sixty people that had close contact with Mr. Curry.”

  “Sixty people? That’s …”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s pathetic. I’m afraid we’re just scraping the tip of the iceberg. The local customs people failed to do their job properly and allowed Mr. Curry simply to walk out of the airport. Hundreds more are probably moving throughout the city infecting others. Maybe thousands more left before our quarantine took effect. God knows how many they might infect.”

  “But it’s a fungus, a mushroom. Isn’t fungus easy to kill, like ringworm or jock itch?”

  Her smile was weak, meant, he thought, to dull the depth of his ignorance. He felt like a schoolboy failing an exam.

  “Fungi are among the most prolific species on the planet. Early man depended heavily on fungi for making bread, beer, and cheese. We eat them for food. Some are even delicacies. We develop antibiotics like penicillin from them. Without them, nothing would decompose. Our own civilized wastes would bury us. On the negative side, some fungi are also parasitic and difficult to control. Some are deadly.”

  “Like this one.”

  She nodded. “Some Cordyceps species are mildly parasitic to insects, but have never before posed a risk for man. This new species is different. It’s highly infectious and kills quickly in a gruesome manner, which you witnessed firsthand.” A little color drained from her face. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  He took a deep breath and asked her the question that he had been dreading. “What if I’m infected?”

  She glanced away for a moment, realized what she was doing, and focused on his face. He li
ked that. It made her pronouncement more personal when she said, “If you are infected, then I’m afraid you’ll die. As yet, we have no cure.”

  He released his breath, surprised at the calmness in which he accepted her sentence of death. It wasn’t that he was eager to die or that he was unafraid of death. It was just that he had faced death many times and had somehow managed to survive. His sixth sense told him that he would squeak by this one as well, or maybe it was simply his stubbornness refusing to accept the inevitable.

  “We’ll see,” he replied.

  “I admire your courage, Detective. I hope you do make it. I need an investigator that isn’t afraid to make the hard calls.”

  He glanced at the tent and scratched at his chest. “I want to get out of this hot air balloon. I suppose your men will want to scrub me down.”

  She nodded. “Thoroughly.”

  “Well, the sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll get out of here.”

  Two suited men led him into a small tent behind the larger one with a high-pressure hose and scrub brushes on long poles. The scrubbing they administered was as thorough as she had promised. One man sprayed the exterior of his suit with chemical foam, while the second attacked it vigorously with the brush. They rinsed him with cold water, stripped him naked, and repeated the procedure on his skin. The brushes were coarse and felt as if they were stripping his skin from his bones. The chemical got into places he viewed as private, but which the technicians merely deemed a challenge. After fifteen minutes, he was allowed to towel dry and don a thin, white, one-piece jumpsuit that reminded him of the sterile suits the police forensics teams wore. They passed him through the clean room into the main section of the tent. He was surprised to see individual transparent plastic cubicles instead of a single open dormitory, but it made sense. If he wasn’t infected, keeping him apart from the others ensured that he didn’t inadvertently become infected. Each cubicle held a cot and a small nightstand. As the technician ushered him inside, he felt a sudden rush of claustrophobia. He fought it down. He tried not to gawk at his fellow roommates, hoping they afforded him the same courtesy.