by Jones, K. J.
PART II
QUARANTINE
Chapter One
Friday
1.
Peter awakened by the sound of his generator kicking on.
“What’s up?” asked groggy Mullen from the couch.
“Checking shit out.”
“Something wrong?” the kid asked with alarm. He jumped up, dropping his blankets onto the floor.
“Chill out.”
Peter exited the cabin, the .45 held behind his back.
Other boat residents came out.
“Are you on genny?” Mr. Sawatsky called over.
“Yeah.”
“Sullivan,” Mullen said as he came out. “Shit, it’s cold.” He crossed his arms and shivered. “I got no cell signal here.”
“Aw, shit.” Peter hurried inside and raced to his bedroom. He scooped his phone off the nightstand and checked the signal. “No no no.” He hurried out to the salon and checked his laptop. No internet signal. He slammed the underside of his fist down on the table. “This is bad!”
“What is it?”
“We’re in trouble.”
“Like … more than we already were in?”
Peter met his gaze. “A lot more.”
“Why is it so freaking cold?” Syanna had a comforter wrapped around her.
“There're no lights.” Phebe flicked the hallway switch up and down. The bathroom was dark.
“Wait. I’ll get my phone for a flashlight.” A moment later, Syanna returned. “Pheebs, I got no signal. Do you?”
Phebe returned to her room to check. “Me either.”
“We’re on different networks. I don’t understand.”
“My laptop has no internet.”
“We paid the bill, didn’t we?”
Matt, in a dark, silent apartment, grabbed a portable HAM radio from its charger on the bedroom floor. He had the early morning shift. Before he left, he grabbed his 9 mm and stowed it in his bag with the radio.
2.
Peter knew some sketchy people. That give him free satellite service to every channel in the world. He could dance to Bollywood if he wanted. Or see what was going on in Hong Kong, if he only could understand Mandarin.
Powered by the generator, he scanned his satellite channels for what was going on outside the blackout zone. His HAM was on. The portable HAM radio charging.
The announcement everyone in the Carolinas had been waiting on for nearly a week finally came.
Peter watched, sitting beside Mullen, who wrapped himself in three blankets. Peter refused to run the heat on the genny and told Mullen to man up.
The Director of the CDC gave an emergency press conference. With two states declaring a state of emergency, apparently the government had to say something now.
“This guy better not say more bullshit about drugs,” said Mullen.
“Feeling the same, buddy.”
The director said:
“A virus is spreading in North and South Carolina. The virus is designated as R140. It is a lyssavirus, related to rabies, but it is not rabies. R140 is a saliva-borne virus, meaning it spreads through the saliva. It is not airborne. It cannot live outside the host body or on surfaces. It spreads primarily through entering a bite that breaks the skin. Traditionally, humans do not spread lyssaviruses to other humans. With R140, this has changed. Humans can contract it from other humans. Several other species that are non-traditional vectors or carriers of lyssaviruses are also spreading it. Humans can contract the virus from non-human species and then spread it to other humans. Also, rodents, including mice, rats, and squirrels, can carry the virus and infect both humans and non-humans through a bite that breaks the skin.
"Only mammals can carry the virus and only mammals can be infected with the virus. Meaning birds, reptiles, amphibians, and fish cannot carry the virus or become infected by it. Animals will show symptoms of the virus within ten days. Humans, though, may take anywhere from twelve hours to twelve months to show symptoms. High stress levels, injury, or infection by another disease seems to quicken infection process, allowing the R140 cells to enter the brain and begin symptoms. That is why we are seeing people who are infected with influenza soon after show R140 symptoms. They were already carrying R140 cells, which were dormant.
"R140 unfortunately has another spreading mechanism. Humans who are not symptomatic may be contagious. It spreads then much like meningitis in this way, through sharing saliva. There is currently no vaccine. Unfortunately, there is no cure. Once an animal or person is showing symptoms, fatality is one hundred percent.”
The press raised hands to ask questions.
“Is this guy,” asked Mullen, “going to mention the violence of the symptom people?”
“Twenty dollars he doesn’t,” said Peter.
“I’m not taking that bet.”
“Too rich for you? How about five?”
“How about it’s a sucker bet.”
“Dr. Harris,” a member of the press asked the director, “rumors on the internet are that it’s a combination of rabies and the flu, and that it’s airborne. Is there any merit to these rumors?”
“That person is a total plant to reiterate the flu angle,” said Mullen.
“Reiterate? Whipping out the dollar words, huh.”
“I went to college. Gotta use it somewhere.”
The director responded:
“Absolutely not. Influenza and lyssaviruses are extremely different in their structure and there1fore are unable to combine with each other. Again, R140 is not airborne. Lyssaviruses are notorious for using methods to deceive the immune system. Laying dormant until the immune system is weakened gives the advantage to the virus cells to cross the blood-brain barrier without immune system detection. The H1N3 flu pandemic has given R140 this opportunity. Next question.”
“What should someone do if they suspect they’ve contracted R140?”
“If from a bite that breaks the skin, they should immediately wash the wound area with antibacterial soap.”
Peter and Mullen laughed.
“Zombie just bit me, quick, get me some soap,” said Peter.
“Gun or hand sanitizer, which one am I reaching for first,” added Mullen.
The director went on about seeking medical assistance after a bite. The topic moved into quarantining. A man from Homeland Security took the podium.
“We assure all the families with loved ones in the quarantine zone they will be treated with respect and humanity.”
Peter said, “You feeling respected and treated humanely?”
“You took away our electricity,” Mullen yelled at the TV. “In winter.”
When Homeland said that they expected the quarantine to be lifted within a week and communications restored, Peter turned it off. The bullshit was getting too deep.
Peter’s HAM radio was set to a select channel he and his friends used. Chris’s voice came through it.
“Sully, it’s Higgins, you there, over?”
“I’m here, Chris, over.”
“I need you to come and get me. Don’t got no truck no more. Over.”
“Whiskey tango foxtrot? Over.” WTF in military terminology. Cursing was illegal on HAM radio by FCC regulations, resulting in fines if violated.
“National Guard shot up my truck. She’s dead, man. I tried to run the barricade. Didn’t work out so well. They had me in holding. I had to walk back here until some guy gave me a lift. Over.”
“That sucks. Over.”
“Come and get my ass. Over.”
“Will do. It may take a while, so stay patient. I know that’s not one of your virtues. Sully, over and out.”
“Julio, Sully, you listening, brother, over?” Peter waited for Julio Reyes, the ex-Delta sniper, to respond.
“Sully, I hear you,” replied Julio’s voice. “What is going on? I woke up freezing, bones aching. I got those disposable heating patches all over me. And outside it looks like Dawn of the Dead. Crazy people running back and forth. Biting people. Whole apar
tment complex gone loco. Am I hallucinating again, hombre? Over.”
“Unfortunately, you are not, brother. Listen, can you get to Higgins’s house? You know where it is? Over.”
“You want me to go to his house? Over.”
“We’ll rendezvous there. Over.”
“I think I can find it. This day keeps getting better. First this shit, and now I gotta spend time with the racist redneck. Over.”
“Just play nice. Don’t shoot him or anything. I’ll meet you there. Sully, over and out.” To Mullen, Peter said, “Ready for a road trip or do you want to stay here and give yourself a pedicure?”
“Really? That’s how you phrase it? Not ‘Hey, ‘Mullen, wanna come with?’”
“So … a pedicure then?”
“I’ll go with you, you overly testosterone asshole.”
Peter chuckled. “I’ll try not to drag my knuckles and sprout more hair. We need to pack first.”
“Pack what? Hand sanitizer?”
“Probably wouldn’t hurt. But I was thinking a little more higher powered.”
Peter left the cabin. Out of curiosity, Mullen followed. He wrapped a blanket tighter around him against the damp cold breeze off the water. Peter went to a hatch on the deck floor. With a finger, he popped up a silver handle. He then heaved a door back on its hinges.
“This was where they kept the crab they caught,” Peter informed Mullen.
Down wooden stairs, the tomb-like room still held a faint scent of old seafood. Peter flicked on overhead lights, illuminating shelves of hundreds of supplies, from non-perishable foods to paper towels.
“Hey, are you a prepper?” Mullen asked.
“Little bit, I guess. It was a freezer in here. Means it was well sealed to keep melting ice from flooding other compartments. And the means it keeps out rats and roaches pretty well.”
Peter went to the back wall which looked like a normal wall, no different from any of the other walls. As Mullen watched, Peter did some kind of Harry Potter magic wall tapping and the wall opened.
“Whoa,” said Mullen.
“Stay here.” Peter used his phone’s flashlight to go in.
The light dance around in the dark. Mullen heard rustling sounds. After a few minutes, a black duffel bag dropped on the floor in front of his feet. It sounded heavy. Mullen unzipped it. He gasped. A pile of black assault rifles.
“Dude, you really are ready for the apocalypse.”
Peter came out, heaving another duffle bag over his shoulder.
“More guns?”
“No, ammo and shit.”
“Like grenades?”
“No, not grenades, moron.”
“Well, I don’t know. It looks like you’re prepared for a war.”
“Wish I was. I need to grab the first aid kit and water. That’s topside.”
Peter borrowed the marina owner Bubba’s champagne colored Chevy Suburban. It was better than a soft-cover Jeep for what he expected out there. Bubba made Peter promise to not get a scratch on his expensive SUV.
With Mullen sitting shotgun, Peter drove north on 421 towards Wilmington.
Mullen eyed the large handgun holstered to Peter’s side, and an assault rifle Peter had beside him. It looked different from the ones in the duffel bag.
“I should have a gun,” said Mullen.
“No, kid. You’re more dangerous than the zombies.”
“How you figure that?”
“I’m gonna give your dumbass an HK assault rifle, really?”
“What’s HK mean? Hunter-killer?”
“No. Heckler and Koch. German manufacturers.”
“What about a handgun?”
“Ever shot one?”
“No.”
“Then no,” said Peter.
“What am I supposed to use in defense, harsh language?”
“Oh! Good Aliens quote. Well placed, brother.”
“What?”
“Tell me you knew that was an Aliens quote.”
“No. I was just saying.”
“Did I make room for your unicorn in the back?”
“Oh, so fuck you, Sully. I know what that means. I’m not a virgin.”
“Girls can be so generous sometimes.”
The going was fast and easy until they got over the bridge. Bumper-to-bumper vehicles packed to the brim. Luggage strapped to the tops. Trunks tied open. Kids. Dogs. Grandma. Whole households.
“Are you kidding me?” Peter hit the steering wheel.
“Look at all the bottled water in that car.”
“Good. If we get a hurricane in the middle of this, that asshole’s ready.”
Police patrol cars lined the opposite direction. Apparently, they were to make sure people didn’t cross over and go the wrong way up the road. That direction, heading south, was clear.
Peter recognized a cop. “That’s Conway.”
Jimbo Conway looked as if he had been fitted out by a carpet salesman. He had patches of carpet duct taped to his arms. All the cops had weird home-made defenses taped or tied to them. The days of tidy uniforms gone. Some cops looked like they had gone three rounds with a boxer. Others appeared to have been trapped in a box with several angry cats. All of them had basic riot gear on, with the shields resting atop their cars, as they yelled at drivers to stay over on their side.
He recognized a cop standing on top of a patrol car with a shotgun. Mazy.
“Get me the binoculars out of my duffle.”
Once having them, Peter looked further ahead to a boxy vehicle. SWAT truck. On top, he recognized a police sniper he knew, Ben Raven. He was prone and scanning through the scope. Ben was Julio’s hunting buddy.
“These cops aren’t going to stay long if shit hits the fan,” stated Peter.
“How you know?”
“The way they’re acting. They’re scared.”
“Why are they out here?”
“Some higher up asshole decided to keep law and order.” Peter deepened his voice in his interpretation of a paternal figure, “Rules are rules, don’t you know, son.”
3.
Phebe and Syanna sat in a cold house. They pulled on multiple layers of clothes, as well as gloves and wool toboggan hats. Their breath visibly blew out.
“Well, at least Becks won’t rot,” said Phebe.
“Oh Lord, why am I in this with the bone collector?”
They had brought her upstairs to her bedroom. It had been a sad and morbid experience neither would forget. Yesterday, it took forever to get through the queue to 911 and report the incident. But no came to collect Rebecca’s body or inquire on the incident.
They huddled together on the couch for warmth. Under several comforters, they sipped highly potent alcohol cocktails for the warming and numbing. Candles burned on the coffee table for light. They had the blinds and drapes closed. It gave them a sense that if they can’t see the outside, they’d be protected. Much like how the bedsheet protected frightened children. They jumped with every sound. Syanna had her pink .380 handgun. She almost shot the covered windows a couple of times when they heard someone outside.
The battery-operated analog clock in the kitchen ticked away.
“This is ridiculous.” Phebe yanked the comforters off and stood.
“Oi! Stop making a draft, lady.” Syanna closed the opening in the comforters.
“We can’t just stay here, in the dark, freezing until God knows what happens.”
“Why not?”
“What happens when it gets colder?”
“Set furniture on fire.”
“Where? We have no fireplace.”
“Cheap ass rental.” Syanna sipped her cocktail, holding the glass with both hands.
“What if someone comes in?” Phebe asked. “Or when we run out of food?”
“We drink ourselves to death. It’s a Southern tradition. At least in my family.”
“Your family also got hit by a lot of trains.”
“That was just a couple of my great uncles.
And they were drunk, sleeping on the tracks. So alcohol still killed ‘em.”
“I don’t like your plan, Sye.”
“Gimme another one, professor.”
“Didn’t you people mention something about one of Matt’s Army buddies had a boat? Was it at Wrightsville Beach?”
“No, Carolina Beach. Which is now really, really, really far away, the way this shit is going. There're zombies, Phebe.”
“But he has a boat? A big one, right?”
“Crab trawler. I mean, not with the crabs anymore. He fixed it up nice. It still looks raggedy on the outside, but the inside is like a house. Well, more like a floating man cave.”
“But it floats?”
“Of course it floats.”
“Can we go there?”
“Excuse me?”
“Go to this boat.”
“Sullivan’s boat?”
“Am I speaking Greek!”
“You want to go in the zombie apocalypse to a trawler with a bunch of Matt’s platoon buddies?”
“Yes.”
“They’re ex-Rangers.”
“Isn’t that rather a good group to be with in this? A hell of a lot better than the people I know. What are they going to do, hit ‘em with big words?”
“They’re war vets. With issues.”
“What are they, not house trained? Are they going to make us their scullery slaves, chained to a stove?”
Syanna chuckled into her glass. “No. I mean on that second one, since neither of us can cook worth a damn. But the first one, hmm, not sure if they’re house trained. But, Phebe, you don’t even like it when people say mankind instead of humankind, but you want to be surrounded by those fowl mouthed, macho dickheads?”
“Do they run around making oorah sounds?”
“First of all, that’s Marines. It’s hooah in the Army.”
“Can I get a manual for this?”
“You’ve never been around military.”
“Alright. You got me worried now. What would happen?”