Isolation (Book 1): Shut In

by Jones, Nathan

  Shut In

  Book One of the Isolation Series

  by

  Nathan Jones

  Copyright © 2019 Nathan Jones

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the author

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The events depicted in this novel are fictional. The characters in this story are also fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely unintentional.

  Books by Nathan Jones

  BEST LAID PLANS

  Fuel

  Shortage

  Invasion

  Reclamation

  Determination

  NUCLEAR WINTER

  First Winter

  First Spring

  Chain Breakers

  Going Home

  Fallen City

  MOUNTAIN MAN

  Badlands

  Homecoming

  Homeland

  Mountain War

  Final Stand

  Lone Valley (upcoming)

  ISOLATION

  Shut In

  Going Out (upcoming)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Books by Nathan Jones

  Author's Note

  Prologue: Grounded

  Chapter One: Rude Awakening

  Chapter Two: Falling Apart

  Chapter Three: Shopping

  Chapter Four: LAX

  Chapter Five: Getting Out

  Chapter Six: Carpool

  Chapter Seven: Southern Utah Badlands

  Chapter Eight: Unanticipated

  Chapter Nine: Connecting

  Chapter Ten: Contact

  Chapter Eleven: St. George

  Chapter Twelve: Notice

  Chapter Thirteen: Watkins

  Chapter Fourteen: Captive

  Chapter Fifteen: Making Do

  Chapter Sixteen: Surviving

  Chapter Seventeen: Colorado Springs

  Chapter Eighteen: Separated

  Epilogue: Big Decisions

  Thank you for reading Shut In!

  Links to Post-Apocalyptic Books

  Author's Note

  The possibility of a pandemic has always been out there as a danger in the world, hovering as a possible disaster to fear, but I never really gave it much thought.

  It has a terror all its own, though. Most people have the urge to give sick people, even sick loved ones, a wide berth. The idea that merely touching someone could cause an unseen pathogen to smack you down and make you miserable, even threaten your life, is an uncomfortable one. Confronted by a highly contagious, deadly disease, that sensation is magnified a thousandfold.

  I've explored what could happen to our society, and the people in it, during various disasters. The chaos and violence that inevitably comes with societal collapse. I even have something similar to the fear of pandemic in some of my other series, with the fear of nuclear fallout. But terrifying as that is, at least you have some idea of where it is so you can avoid those areas.

  How do you avoid an invisible danger that could be anywhere, carried by anyone around you? What do you do when faced by that threat?

  Your home becomes your only refuge, and you take your life in your hands every time you step out your door.

  As I launch the Isolation Series, I'd like to express my appreciation to my family for all their advice and invaluable help, and to all the readers who've supported me over the years. I made writing my lifelong goal at a young age, and have now spent more years working determinedly at it than not. To be able to support myself doing what I love is a tremendous gift, and I want to offer my sincere gratitude to all those who've made it possible.

  From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

  Prologue: Grounded

  Josh Thurston mopped at his face with the cloth the flight attendant had given him. It was already sopping wet and probably didn't even do anything. That, or he was sweating so much that he felt it beading on his forehead and sliding down again almost immediately after.

  He felt utterly humiliated, keenly aware of how the nice young woman seated next to him was leaning away in distaste, practically crawling into her husband's lap. He couldn't blame her; in spite of the deodorant he'd worn, the stink of his sweat was rank in his nostrils, and starting to permeate the rest of the plane's coach section. Not only was he distasteful, but she'd probably suspect he was sick.

  If he'd been seated next to a sweaty, stinking, sickly stranger on an airplane he wouldn't have been all that happy about it either. He'd already apologized for it twice, the first time drawing a studious blank expression from the couple, as if they hadn't even been aware of it, and the second drawing mostly sincere reassurances.

  Well, at least some young folks were polite enough to respect the elderly, even in a situation like this.

  The thing was, Josh didn't feel sick. There was no achiness, or nausea, or weakness, or anything else he'd associate with being ill. And after almost seventy years of suffering his fair share of ailments, not to mention the ever-increasing discomforts of old age, he would've recognized anything like that.

  No, what he really felt like was the flight attendants had turned the blasted temperature in the cabin way too low. He'd bundled up in preparation for that, of course, but even so he still felt like he was freezing. The only thing the extra layers seemed to do was make him pour sweat.

  He should've asked for a blanket, but to be honest he hadn't wanted to get it all filthy like the sweat-soaked cloth. Which was silly, since he was sure the airline's staff would wash it before reusing it anyway.

  Josh mopped at his face again, then froze when he saw that the sodden cloth he held was tinged pink. What the blazes?

  He dabbed again, carefully, with just one corner, beneath his eyes. When he pulled the cloth away it was tinged a deeper, more ominous red. A sudden surge of soaring dizziness washed over him, one he wasn't sure was due to his shock at the implications of what he was seeing or some aspect of his sickness.

  He tried to push to his feet, intending to go to the bathroom and see if they had a mirror he could check. His strength failed him and he sagged back into his seat, worry turning into alarm.

  Then he felt his nose begin to run, gradually joined by an unpleasant liquid sensation in his ears. When he dabbed beneath his nose with his cloth it came away definitely bloody. He choked on sudden dread, and flecks of bloody spittle sprayed the chair in front of him.

  Josh stared at the crimson dots in blank shock, horrible realization dawning. This wasn't some simple cold or flu, or if it was it was an incredibly serious one. He might even be dying.

  He took a breath, fighting the soaring dizziness. “May, was it, dear?” he asked quietly. The nice young woman beside him jumped slightly in surprise and turned to give him a questioning look. He started to ask her to go alert the flight attendant that he needed a doctor, but the moment she saw him she screamed.

  It wasn't some simple gasp or yelp, either, but a full on horror movie being murdered by a masked madman sort of scream. What did he look like?

  May scrambled backwards into her husband's lap as he also screamed, the two of them collapsing back into the opposite aisle as they stared at him. Other passengers were now staring at him too, many gasping or yelling themselves.

  Josh noticed movement to his left, from the other aisle, as a flight attendant hurried up to him, only to freeze a safe distance away and stare at him with an expression of horror and disgust.

  “Ma'am,” he said as loudly as he could over the commotion around him. “I believe I need
a doctor.”

  The next few minutes were a blur of attendants calling over the intercom for any doctors or nurses aboard, nearby passengers vacating their seats and clogging the aisles to get away from him for a few rows. At Josh's polite insistence someone threw him a hand mirror, allowing him to see what had so frightened May and the others.

  In retrospect it might've been a mistake, because the sight terrified him as well.

  He appeared to be bleeding from his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. It was possible he was even bleeding a bit through his pores. His face was a damp, ashen mask of blood and sweat, haggard as death itself, gray hair plastered to his head and tinged pink.

  What kind of sickness could do this?

  A professionally dressed woman was ushered back from first class. Josh couldn't help but notice she was wearing a face mask and gloves as she hurried over to him. “Mr. Thurston, I'm Dr. Coleson. I'm going to check your vitals and see what we can do to make you more comfortable, okay?”

  He nodded uncertainly. “I'm so sorry about all this trouble, Doctor.”

  Her eyes crinkled at the corners above her face mask, as if she was giving him a reassuring smile. “Don't worry about any of that, Mr. Thurston. Let's just get you well.”

  Dr. Coleson's checkup turned out to be surprisingly similar to the countless others Josh had been through over a long life. He allowed himself to be poked and prodded, trying not to feel humiliated at having so many eyes on him. At least the young woman was thoroughly professional as she jotted information down on a little notepad, brow furrowed in concentration, and asked him a barrage of questions.

  After fifteen or so minutes a flight attendant gave the doctor a headset, and she excused herself to have a conversation, presumably with someone on the ground. After an agonizing few minutes she came back, face beneath her mask deathly pale.

  “You're doing great, Mr. Thurston,” she said, voice shaking noticeably. She didn't come quite as close as she had been. “Let's shift to where you've been in the last few days, okay?”

  Josh stared at her. “Why? How does that help get me better?”

  Before she could answer the cabin's intercom blared as the pilot's voice came over it, solemn and possibly frightened, although he tried to hide it. “Good evening, folks. Due to unfolding circumstances our flight has been redirected. We apologize for this inconvenience, and assure you we're doing everything in our power to get you where you're going as swiftly as possible.”

  Redirected? Josh stared at Dr. Coleson, who was speaking quietly over the headset. “What's happening, Doctor? Does this have something to do with me? What do I have?”

  She held her hand up for quiet and took a few steps back, still murmuring into the headset. Josh grabbed his seat's armrests and tried to stand, intending to insist she tell him just what the blazes was going on. But his strength gave out in a way he'd never experienced before, and he flopped back down as limp as a jellyfish.

  That scared him more than he liked to admit. “Doctor?” he whispered. “What's wrong with me?”

  The doctor was scribbling something on her notepad, and after almost half a minute she abruptly ripped the page free and shoved it at him, careful to make sure he didn't come close to touching her. Josh grabbed it, blinked a red tinge out of his eyes, then focused on the page. In other circumstances it would've been amusing to note that the words were nearly illegible, although that was probably mostly from the haste with which she'd been writing.

  Not to mention the panic she had to be feeling, considering what it said:

  “Mr. Thurston, please do not read this aloud or speak of it to anyone. We don't want to cause a panic. I regret to inform you that you've contracted a highly virulent disease. We don't know its origin and have not settled on a name as yet, but yours is not the first case we've seen in the last several days. I also regret to inform you that the disease has a high mortality rate, especially for someone of your advanced age.

  I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you should prepare for the worst.”

  If Dr. Coleson didn't want to cause a panic, it was already too late for the couple who'd been sitting next to Josh. May was noisily freaking out about being exposed to something that would make her bleed out of her eyes, while her husband held her tight and looked like he wanted to be sick.

  The pilot came back on the intercom. “Attention all passengers. I regret to inform you that we've been ordered to confiscate all phones in the interests of public safety. Be advised that anyone who makes a call or refuses to comply will be subject to criminal charges when we land at our destination.”

  “What destination?” a man somewhere behind Josh shouted. “Where are we going? Is this some kind of quarantine precaution because of the sick guy?” There was no answer, and the man's voice became angry. “What kind of danger are we in? Answer me!”

  No one did, which caused a massive stir of panic from the other passengers. The flight attendants began going from passenger to passenger, politely but insistently collecting phones.

  Dr. Coleson fidgeted nervously. “You know what, Mr. Thurston? Let's go ahead and not worry about where you've been. The C-” she cut off sharply, glancing at the other passengers, then haltingly continued, “that is, the professionals at our destination can handle all that.”

  Without another word the woman retreated to the bathroom. When she emerged she was no longer wearing the gloves or mask and her hands, arms, and face were carefully scrubbed. She refused to meet his eye as she hurried past to return to the first class cabin.

  Josh was left to his misery after that.

  People avoided him like the plague, which he bitterly supposed wasn't far wrong. Eventually he felt a pain in his lower gut, joined by a seeping wetness in the seat of his pants that informed him that he was now bleeding out of most or all of his orifices. He felt like it should hurt, all that bleeding. But aside from the deep stomach cramp, and the dizziness and weakness, and feeling like he was freezing and burning at the same time, he didn't feel much.

  In spite of his fear and discomfort he must've eventually drifted off, because when he next jolted awake it was to the plane jolting as well. At first he thought it was turbulence, but then he saw the flashing lights outside the plane's windows, an expanse of black tarmac covered with all sorts of emergency vehicles.

  Normally landing a jet and disembarking took forever, but this time it was only five or so minutes before a swarm of people in full hazmat suits poured down the aisles.

  They made a beeline for Josh, politely but firmly packing him up on a narrow stretcher and hauling him towards one of the plane's side doors, where he was carefully maneuvered down one of those stair cars. He was slapped onto a rolling gurney, and they began wheeling him down one of those plastic tunnels you saw in movies for serious quarantine measures as he was hooked up to various monitors and an IV.

  “Excuse me,” he said, frightened by how weak and quavery his voice was. “Can someone please tell me what I have? Is there a cure?”

  There was no response from the hazmat people, although one patted him on the arm. The reassuring gesture was rendered moot by the man hastily jerking his hand back as if burned, then trying to pretend like he hadn't.

  Soon after that the tunnel ended in the glass doors of a sterile, modern-looking building. Josh craned to see through the press of suited bodies around him, and as his gurney was ushered through the doors spotted a plaque near the entrance. It featured three large capital letters followed by two lines of smaller words:

  CDC

  Centers for Disease

  Control and Prevention.

  ◆◆◆

  Nick Statton set his phone down beside the keyboard, letting the screen go black in sleep mode with the calculator app still up. It would be an unpleasant reminder when he woke it up again, but at the moment he was too tired and dispirited even to do something as simple as exit out of it.

  He rubbed his bleary eyes and stared at his laptop's screen, not seeing the various windows of half-
finished coding projects and research displayed there. He honestly wondered what was the point in diving back into them.

  He'd run the numbers twice now, and it was the same. Endless expenses all piling up on him, chipping away at his current earnings and meager savings. He could work more billable hours, maybe even take on another project or two, but it seemed like the harder he worked the less he got for his effort. And he was already being crushed by the workload, only to see the mountain of expenses looming ever higher, the blasted numbers on the calculator getting smaller and smaller.

  Or bigger and bigger in the wrong direction, to be more accurate. When had just living day to day gotten so expensive? When had being one of the most experienced freelance consultants in his field of expertise started paying so little?

  His laptop finally fell asleep too, the light from the screen winking out and leaving him with just the light from the hallway, left on all night because Tallie couldn't sleep otherwise. He just sat there bent over his clasped hands, too exhausted to do anything, even put two thoughts together, but well aware that if he went to bed he wouldn't find sleep for hours anyway.

  Nick wasn't sure how long he sat like that before the soft padding of tiny feet on the carpet behind him alerted him to the fact that sometimes Tallie woke up even with the light on. Then he heard her soft voice whispering behind him. “Daddy, did you go to sleep again?”

  He sucked in a sharp breath and turned, forcing away his troubled thoughts. It wasn't hard to find a smile as he held out his arms and let his daughter climb into his lap. “Guess so,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Did you wake up again?”

  “Just to go potty.” She yawned hugely, showing small, even white baby teeth. She was a little cherub in her favorite princess pajamas, all dark brown curls and big greenish-brown eyes and pudgy cheeks rosy from sleeping in her room with the door closed, to keep from heating the entire apartment and wasting power on an only uncomfortably chilly early spring night.