Pandemic: Quietus: A Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Fiction Series (The Pandemic Series Book 4)

by Bobby Akart

  Hunter gripped the man by the shoulder and looked into his eyes. “Doc, I’ve come to know Derek pretty well. I’ve served with some real warriors in my career. I think your son is as resilient as any of them.”

  Doc patted Hunter’s hand. “Thanks for saying that. I hope you’re right. He was able to tell me something.”

  Hunter looked around at what was clearly a lynch mob. “I gathered that.”

  “It was one, or likely both, of the Snow boys. They tricked him into the shed, and when he opened the door, they clobbered him with the shovel. Hunter, I’ve had enough.”

  “We all have!” said a man standing behind Hunter.

  “Yeah, they tried to burn us out. It’s time to put a stop to this crap!” shouted a woman behind the sheriff.

  The sheriff moved to calm the mob. “Now, listen up, folks. I agree and we are gonna do something about this. Let me talk to our visitors and see what they have to say. Y’all go home for now and come back around five o’clock. I promise you I’ll have a full explanation and an appropriate plan.”

  The Breckenridge locals began to grumble because they were hyped up and ready to go. One of the men responded, “Sheriff, we trust you, but we’ve all had it. I, for one, am tired of living under the threats that man Snow and his family poses for the Breck and my family.”

  “Yeah!”

  “Me too. I’m fed up!”

  The crowd was rarin’ to go. The sheriff held his hands up, hoping for calm. “All right then, come back at five. Let me talk to these fellas and I promise you nothing’s gonna happen in the meantime. Go on. I’ll see you all back here later. Go on, now!”

  The crowd slowly dissipated and the sheriff led Doc, Hunter, and the two military officers toward the Riverwalk, where the water was flowing at a pretty good clip. At the railing overlooking the river, the group took in the beauty of the river before the sheriff spoke first.

  “Okay, gentlemen, give me one reason for not unleashing the angry mob on that SOB Snow and his people.”

  “Experience,” started Colonel Clements. “We’re going to do it for you, but I have to tell you, there is a price.”

  Chapter 47

  Day Ninety-One

  Noah’s Ark

  Boreas Pass at Red Mountain

  Janie was trembling as she pressed herself hard against the bolted wooden door that sealed off her exit from the room—only, it wasn’t a room, really. She’d caught a glimpse of it as she was shoved inside by her handlers, the two women who pretended to be her friends but acted more like her captors. The dark space where she’d been locked into was a cave or a dug-out hole inside the middle of an abandoned mine.

  Somewhere within the underground labyrinth of connected mine shafts, she heard the sheer terror of a woman as her screams echoed off the walls. Janie closed her eyes and opened them quickly, hoping this was a nightmare. When she suddenly realized she was biting down on her hand, it confirmed she was fully awake. She’d unconsciously bit down hard enough to draw blood from the cuts she’d sustained while being attacked and dragged up the mountain.

  Within seconds, the screaming stopped. The resulting silence was deafening. Janie pressed harder against the door, trying to hear. In the dark, she fumbled for a handle, but there wasn’t one.

  The door has to have a handle; otherwise you couldn’t get out, right?

  Janie gathered the courage to move away from the door and follow the cold, wet wall around the perimeter of the room, using her hands. Her legs bumped into a simple wooden table against the wall. She felt around the top in search of a lamp, but all she found was a single candlestick sitting in a holder. A box of matches sat within the bobeche designed to catch the wax drippings.

  Janie lit the match and the room illuminated. Awestruck at its frightening appearance, she stood stunned for a few seconds until the burning match began to burn her fingertips, bringing her back to the present.

  She lit the candle and threw the burning match angrily onto the floor. She took in her surroundings. It was a dug-out hole in the wall of the mountain. The ceiling was low and the space small, barely large enough for the antique iron bed, the simple pine side table and a dresser, which included a pitcher of water and a bucket, which she assumed was her toilet.

  Janie immediately walked to the dresser and opened the drawers. Several white and pastel cotton dresses were neatly folded inside with some fur-lined moccasins.

  She made her way to the bed and flopped onto it out of exhaustion. She began to recall the events that led to her abduction. Derek had heard a crashing sound emanating from the toolshed and the two of them ran up from the checkpoint to investigate. Janie was supposed to watch the woods in case anyone came out after them.

  Derek had barely moved the door when the shovel blade came out of the opening and sliced into his face. Stunned, Janie tried to run toward the shed, but out of nowhere, she was tackled from behind.

  Her gun flew out of her hands as she got pinned to the earth, knocking the wind out of her. Now she was helpless. The man on top of her yoked Janie’s hands behind her back and tied them together with an extension cord. She managed to let out a scream, which distracted Derek, whose face was already bloodied.

  She saw the boy pounce out of the shed with a grin on his face and slap Derek across the throat with the shovel’s handle. Derek fell to his knees and grabbed at his neck. The teen didn’t hesitate as he let out a guttural scream and swung the shovel as hard as he could to the back of Derek’s head, knocking him half in and half out of the shed.

  The boy danced around Derek’s feet, waving the bloody shovel over his head, screaming, “Home run, home run,” before spinning around and heaving the shovel toward the woods like an Olympian might toss a hammer down the field.

  He then turned to Janie with a devilish grin. “Stand her up, Levi,” the boy demanded as he approached Janie, who was in a state of shock, staring at Derek’s lifeless, bloodied body. He walked around her and played with her hair. He touched her face, her neck, and then everywhere else he decided to touch.

  Janie began to cry as she relived the moment. It wasn’t her safety and what might inevitably happen to her in the midst of these crazy people, but it was her lasting memory of Derek, a guy she’d fallen for, who was left behind, facedown in a pool of blood.

  For several minutes, she whimpered as quietly as possible, hoping her captors would forget about her. The boys had turned her over to the older women, who immediately stripped off her clothes, using a long hunting knife. Then they bathed her while she stood there defiant, fighting back the tears.

  Finally, Janie was wrapped in a thin, white cotton gown and shoved deep into the mine to this room. In her confusion, Janie didn’t pay attention to her surroundings. The women cut the cord off her wrists, drawing blood on her back with the tip of the large knife, and then pushed her into the room. Within seconds, the door was slammed closed and the sound of a steel latch sealed her inside.

  Now, she sat there, frightened, recalling the details of what was said and where she had been taken prior to this mine shaft. Somehow, Janie held out hope the memory could help her escape or aid in her rescue. She was deep in thought when she heard a girl’s voice.

  “Hey, new girl, can you hear me?”

  Janie thought she was mistaken. The tension in the air screamed at her. How can I be hearing a voice? They told me not to talk, or there would be punishments.

  “It gets better, you know. At first, they’ll break you. But if you’re compliant, as they like to say, you’ll get a better room and good food too.”

  Janie wrapped the robe around her and tied the front. She pushed her ear against a crack in the door and listened. Then she spoke to the voice on the outside.

  “They told me not to talk.”

  “I know, but we’ve learned they leave us alone after the prophet has visited for the evening.”

  “Who?” asked Janie. “The prophet?”

  “Yeah, we don’t know his real name. We don’t know any
of their names.”

  Janie thought about the girl’s words. “What do you mean by we? Are there more of us?”

  “Lots, my name is Terri. I’m in here with my sister, Karen. We’re from—”

  “Fairplay, right?” interrupted Janie. “Your father came around our place, looking for you. Whoa, that’s been a month ago.”

  “Could be, we’ve lost track of the days. I miss Daddy,” said Terri Weigel as she began to cry.

  Janie felt terrible for the girl and her twin sister. They were so young. “Hey, my name’s Janie.”

  There was silence for another few seconds, then a chorus of replies came from the mine shaft. Janie couldn’t determine if they were real or ghosts, because they were so weak and faraway.

  “Rachel’s my name.”

  “I’m Becky.”

  “Olivia.”

  “Emma.”

  “My name is Sophia.”

  “I’m Charlotte.”

  “My name is Emma too.”

  The women’s whispered voices continued to provide their names until they were too far away for Janie to hear them. She was suddenly filled with despair.

  Why are they doing this? Who are these people?

  Then Janie got the courage to ask the Weigel girls. “Hey, what does this prophet want from us? Please help me understand.”

  The answer was unnerving in its terrifying simplicity.

  “They want our babies,” replied Terri.

  “But I don’t have a baby.”

  “You will,” said Terri before pausing. “Eventually.”

  Chapter 48

  Day Ninety-One

  The Den

  Denver

  Mac’s first full day working at the Den, the government’s secret facility several thousand feet below the runways at Stapleton Airport, might’ve resembled any employee’s first day at work for a new job. Most of the morning was spent being introduced to her co-workers, some of whom were with the CDC, but most of whom had been brought on board from USAMRIID at Fort Detrick.

  Through casual conversations with her counterparts, she learned more about the government’s plan to recall all military personnel and their dependents to the vast network of military bases around the country. Star Ranch was the pilot community for civilians who would assist in the rebuilding effort once the plague could be contained, or now, thanks to Mac’s efforts, cured.

  Mac was careful to choose her conversations and wary of another person’s intentions when asking her innocent questions. Sandra Wilkinson didn’t strike her as a conspiracy-minded person in the past when they had worked together in Atlanta, but she certainly was now.

  Mac slept until seven o’clock this morning when a wake-up announcement was made over the speakers in the facility. No one warned me of that. Anxious to observe the routine of the hundreds of people within the Den, she got dressed and found a mess hall on the eighth floor.

  In addition to the ground floor, which had a weight room, a running track and a movie theater, the facility had several other common areas used by all of the residents of the Den. At the fourth, eighth, and twelfth floor, in the center of the structure, massive steel cross supports spanned the interior like spokes on a bicycle wheel.

  Built on top of these spokes was a commissary and several restaurants. Each of the three common areas had a twenty-four-hour facility that served traditional foods. The fourth floor also had an Asian restaurant. The eighth floor served Italian fare. The twelfth floor contained a Mexican cantina, without the tequila, much to Mac’s chagrin. In fact, there was no alcohol or weapons allowed within the facility.

  While she was eating a bowl of cereal with a plate of canned fruit, Sandra Wilkinson slid into the chair across from her. The two casually sipped coffee and talked about the events that had transpired in Atlanta. Wilkinson, like the other survivors from Atlanta who were airlifted to Denver, had given a round-the-clock effort to finding a vaccine or a cure for this strain of the plague.

  Mac’s BALO proposal was modified, tweaked and tried again on residents of Atlanta. The failure of the drug to produce a cure resulted in the riot that occurred at the CDC campus.

  When the crowds started to gather and the Georgia National Guard announced they could no longer guarantee the safety of the CDC employees, Dr. Spielman gave the order to dismantle equipment and transfer data onto portable hard drives. The staff worked for twenty-four hours to prepare for an evacuation of both equipment and personnel.

  A dozen scientists and another dozen support staff were whisked away from the rooftop of their building via helicopter, taken to Dobbins Air Base in Marietta, and then immediately flown to Denver’s Stapleton Airport via military transport.

  “We were held in the terminal for seventeen days as part of their quarantine protocol, but the medical eval involved more than that,” said Wilkinson. “We were visited on multiple occasions for one-on-one conversations with government psychologists.”

  “So if you didn’t have the plague, you were good to go unless you were crazy?” asked Mac.

  “Pretty much, honey. As I look back on it, the questions regarding our ability to live in an enclosed, underground building like this were mixed into the other inquiries about family, friends and suicidal tendencies. It made sense, you know. If you boil it down, we’re trapped underground. It ain’t right.”

  Mac laughed. “Well, underground, yes. But not really trapped.”

  “Yes, trapped,” added Wilkinson bluntly. “Mac, nobody leaves here. I’ve heard of people claiming to lose it after months of being underground and they end up being medicated in the infirmary for a while before they appear around the facility in other jobs.”

  “Dr. Spielman never told me that,” said Mac.

  Wilkinson continued. “He will, as soon as you ask to leave. Have you read your orientation packet? You know, about the furloughs?”

  “No.”

  “Mac, when you volunteered to come here, did they not tell you these things?”

  “No, Sandra, they didn’t. In fact, I had a hard time falling asleep last night and I thought about all of the unanswered questions I had asked Dr. Spielman. In hindsight, he was very evasive and I should have pushed him for answers.”

  “Honey, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but those questions should’ve been asked and answered before you agreed to come here. It’s too late now. I doubt Spielman has the sole authority to send you out of here anyway.”

  Mac slumped in her chair, dejected. She understood the need for secrecy. She doubted whether most members of Congress knew about the Den, much less the public. Mac had a high security clearance and could be trusted.

  Why wouldn’t they tell me about these restrictions?

  “Mac, who recruited you to come here?”

  “The President.”

  “What, honey? Our President? Garcia? He recruited you to come here. I didn’t think you two would ever be on speaking terms after, you know.”

  Mac laughed. “Well, he loves me now. Sandra, you have to keep this quiet until after lunch, agreed?”

  “Sure, honey. What is it?”

  “I’ve developed a cure. I’ve been working on it since I was fired. My father contracted the plague and so did his dog. I cured them both. That’s why I’m here.”

  Wilkinson leaned back in her chair and momentarily smiled before a look of gloom came over her face. “I knew you’d do it. But that presents a bigger problem for you, honey.”

  “How so?”

  Wilkinson leaned into Mac. “You’ve given the president the keys to the kingdom, and now he can charge the rest of the world a king’s ransom for the cure.”

  “He wouldn’t do that. I mean, he can’t, right?”

  Wilkinson patted Mac on her knee in a Southern, motherly way. “Oh, honey. You didn’t learn anything from what happened in Washington, did you? If you trust this President, then you’ve obviously failed history class.”

  Chapter 49

  Day Ninety-One

&nbs
p; The Den

  Denver

  Earlier, Mac had spent a few more minutes with Wilkinson, who warned her about the cameras tucked in every room and the potential for strangers approaching her in casual conversation. The facility was full of snitches reporting information back to the department heads to gain favor. While living in a hole in the ground didn’t have that much to offer, Wilkinson had said, better meals, more free time, and the promise of escorted trips into the heavily guarded Jeppesen Terminal were worth tricking someone into saying too much.

  Jeppesen, the aboveground terminal of Stapleton, was where the department heads had face-to-face meetings with members of the military in a private conference room. The government employees who’d earned their perk to visit above ground were allowed to sit in a cordoned-off section of the terminal, which had a uniquely designed peaked roof providing a snow-capped mountain effect. For an hour, the chosen ones, as Wilkinson called them, were allowed to look out the plate-glass windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of wildlife or humanity. However, being exposed to natural light was the greatest perk of all, Wilkinson surmised.

  One of the things Mac had learned from her years in public service was jealousy ran rampant throughout the ranks of government employees. The government pay scale and advancement system fostered an atmosphere that rewarded those who endeared themselves to their superiors, often at the expense of others.

  Mac didn’t need the aggravation of being tricked because she was new. She now had one goal in mind—get out of the Den.

  The information received from Wilkinson and her own observations dictated her actions at the noon meeting with Dr. Spielman and the other scientists. Mac had an idea that would make her indispensable.

  Before the meeting, she approached Dr. Spielman in his office, regarding the offer to be assigned the prime office space. He’d never specifically said what he had in mind, but whatever the position was, she intended to take it if it gave her the opportunity to get out of there.