Vendel Rising Omnibus

by L A Warren

  A spasm of coughing overcame him. When he quieted, he continued. "Thousands who weren't at the banquet are dead. That number is rising. Look." He activated a console in the armrest of his chair and a screen of numbers flashed in the mist. Red and black counts of those sick and those dead.

  The two men returned from upstairs and one poked his head inside the parlor. "Sir, we're finished." He nodded to the interviewer.

  "Director Comwell," the man with all the questions said. "You, your granddaughter, and the staff will be quarantined." He coughed and shifted from foot to foot as he explained.

  "Gentlemen," Elise said to the gathered biohazard crew, "my grandfather needs rest. If there's nothing else?"

  The leader shook his head. "We have the samples we need."

  "Good. I'll see you to the door." She escorted the five men and their little black cases to their van and stopped the man who had interviewed them. "So, how bad is it?"

  He shrugged.

  "Do we know what's causing it?"

  He shook his head. "I'm sorry, we don't. But with the samples, we hope to find out."

  Her gaze wandered back up to the house. "And my grandfather?"

  "I don't know."

  "Has anyone recovered?" Hope burned to ash at the look returned in his eyes.

  "I'm sorry. We're just trying to keep up with the cases and contain the epidemic." He handed his clipboard to one of the men in the van. "Miss, I have to go. I have a lot of work to do."

  She thought of her night at The Spot. What have I done?

  As the van drove down the long sloping drive, she cast her eyes skyward into the twilight. Her thoughts focused into a tight beam heavenward.

  Whatever you did, I will make you pay.

  She marched back inside. Her grandfather was slumped over in the chair. She helped him to his feet and got him upstairs. There was a desk in the corner of his room equipped with a holo-display. She activated the mist and found the program he'd shown her with the numbers with the current tally of deaths in real-time.

  She called her brother-in-law.

  "Hi, Tom."

  Her insides felt like someone had carved them out, leaving her hollow and bleak.

  A groggy Tom stared back at her through the holo-mist. "Hey, sis, we're going to be a little late getting over there today." He paused and then looked back with concern. "Why are you calling me so early?"

  "We're under quarantine."

  "What?"

  "Gramps is sick." She stared through the holo-mist at his strong features. "People from the banquet are sick and many are dead. Dale and Elenor Armstrong died."

  "What!" His eyes looked ready to pop.

  She rested her forehead in her hands. "They're calling it an outbreak. Take the girls and get to the island."

  The Comwell's had a private retreat, a secure facility for just this purpose. Alice had been right about one thing. Charles Comwell prepared for doomsday, and his family had everything they needed to survive decades, if need be, on a secured island retreat. They just needed to get to it. Or, rather, Tom needed to get the girls there before they were exposed.

  It was too late for her.

  Her gaze traveled over to the slumbering form of her grandfather. He appeared so fragile. On the pillow and sheets, pink tinged linens betrayed the truth of his condition.

  She felt her forehead. It was cool to the touch. She inhaled through her nose. No stuffiness. No sneezing. Not a single cough.

  A glance at the program her grandfather created made her gasp.

  "What is it?" Tom recaptured her attention with a worried expression, but it was clear he still didn't get how serious it was.

  "There are a hundred thousand suspected cases. Twenty-thousand confirmed dead. No survivors."

  The numbers raced upward. Her stomach twisted. A sense of urgency pressed into her voice.

  "Get out! Don't wait. Don't talk to anyone. Just run. Get to the island!"

  "I'll come get you."

  "And do what? I'm with Gramps and he's sick. Don't you understand?" They were all dead.

  Tom's somber eyes stared back. He nodded after a long pause. "Elise, I love you." There was nothing further to say.

  "I love you, too. Tell the girls I love them and give them a kiss from me." Hot angry tears threatened to burst forth, but she wouldn't let Tom see her cry. No need to let him see her terror.

  "I will."

  "Listen, if I…" She swallowed against the lump in her throat. "If I can, I'll fly down there… when it's safe to do so." Her small stunt flyer could make the journey to the island if she carried extra fuel. Risky, but she'd make it if she could. "This is spreading fast. Don't make contact with anyone. Do you understand?"

  "I do."

  She slammed the control button with a shaking hand, severing the connection before either of them broke down. It was time to be strong; Tom for the girls, and her for Gramps.

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday morning, February 5, 2035:

  Elise wandered down to the South wing to check on the four other individuals at the estate: Mark, their driver, Angel, their cook, and Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, who were the caretakers of the house and grounds. She found them in the staff break room, clustered around a holo-console watching the news. They glanced up as she entered.

  "How is he?" Mark asked.

  "Not good," she said.

  "Elise," Mrs. Jameson said, patting the cushion next to her, "have a seat. They're talking about the sickness."

  Mrs. Jameson's husband snorted. "It's a damn plague, not a sickness. Bet those bastards brought it to us."

  Elise lowered down to sit beside Mrs. Jameson. She'd grown up with these people. Although employees, they'd become an extended family over the years.

  The Jameson's were the over-protective parents who sheltered her, while Mark acted like an older brother, sneaking in driving lessons and showing the fine art of drifting, which she never mastered. For similar safety reasons, they never allowed her in the kitchen. They had rated stoves, boiling water, and hot ovens too dangerous for little girls. Angel, however, invited her in when her parents left on extended trips away from home, showing her how to bake and create edible masterpieces. She would forever associate Sunday mornings with Angel's special treats and the mouth-watering aroma of dough rising in the ovens.

  Not all had been fun and games. They had viewed chores as a necessary character building exercise, and spared neither her, nor her sister from mundane labor. Mrs. Jameson imprinted a strict discipline, refusing to clean little girls’ rooms. Elise learned hubris from her housekeeper. Perseverance came from Mr. Jameson who worked on the grounds. That man didn't know how to quit, and he didn't allow her to give up on her small garden plot either. She picked weeds for years, harvesting a frugal crop of stunted carrots and beans year after year, but they were all hers. With Angel's help, she turned them into tasty rewards for her hard work.

  Her extended family huddled together, joined by the years and by their fears of this new threat. As a group, they leaned forward to see what they could learn.

  The news agencies had precious little information to share. People were getting sick. They were dying. No one had answers. The newscasters advised everyone to remain calm.

  "Don't worry, Elise," Mark said, "I've activated the security systems. We'll be fine if we stay on the grounds."

  They were all thinking the same thing. The moment news agencies told people to remain calm was when panic set in. Her grandfather wasn't in any state to soothe the masses. Riots would ensue if Global Corps couldn't keep everyone calm.

  "I'm going to go back and check on him," she said.

  "I have soup brewing," Candice said. "It'll be ready soon."

  "Thanks."

  When she walked into her grandfather's room, his soft snoring calmed her. That, at least, was normal.

  She turned toward the console and to the program displaying the numbers of those who were sick. It exceeded the hundreds of thousands mark and kept ticki
ng upward. The dead seemed intent on catching the number of sick. Those who recovered remained steady at zero. Not a single survivor? Surely that was wrong.

  After she called Candice to let her know not to bother with the soup, she went to her suite of rooms and gathered a pillow and blanket. She curled up on a chair beside her grandfather, holding his hand.

  So hot.

  All his clout in the world and they couldn't spare a single physician? Although, knowing her grandfather, he'd sent them all away. She held vigil alone.

  After the death of her parents, he'd been her rock. He might be a leader to the world, but to her he was Gramps—the best man a girl could know.

  Charles Comwell taught her everything she knew about strength, love, and forgiveness. Don't waste energy on hatred, he said, your heart is too kind to hold on to such a damaging emotion.

  She'd be damned if he died alone.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday, February 6, 2035:

  Erotic touches filled her dreams. A sensual man with silver eyes traced fire along her skin. The Vendel Emperor's caress released pulses of multicolored light that spread over her body. Everywhere he touched, heat bloomed into a firestorm of need. She moaned with desire and an insatiable urge to be claimed.

  With a start, Elise came to sudden alertness, breathing hard with the vividness of the dream. Lingering thoughts drifted in her mind, leaving her feeling flushed and aroused.

  Bright light poured through the huge windows and showered the room with a warm glow.

  A wrongness settled over her, spoiling the dream.

  The room was quiet, too quiet.

  She bolted upright, staring down at the still form of her grandfather wrapped in deep slumber.

  He laid without moving. The rhythmic cadence of his breathing had vanished. She leaned over and stopped cold.

  Blood stained his pillow and the sheets beneath his open mouth. His sightless eyes stared ahead. Her breath caught on a sudden constriction in her throat. Then, it was like a dam burst, and choking sobs clawed free of her throat. She howled with the loss of him. Her grief spilled into the too quiet room.

  No one came running.

  She brushed away her tears and stared at the back of her hand. No tinge of pink. In fact, even when she blew her nose, the drainage was clear. She felt well. No sign of being sick at all. No chills. No fever. No sign of the illness that killed her grandfather. First Elenor, then Dale… now her Gramps? All gone. An aching emptiness settled inside her chest. She closed his lids with trembling fingers.

  They did this. The Emperor's face filled her mind. Even now her traitorous body flushed thinking about him, which made her feel sick to her stomach. That man had killed her grandfather.

  There was no rewind button, no way to back up time. She couldn't escape the truth. She forced herself to stand, to move.

  "Gramps, I'm sorry." The oppressive silence of his bedroom swallowed her words as she covered his face with the sheet.

  Elise blinked back her tears and headed to the holo-console. She entered the biohazard emergency number and contacted his aides to have them make the necessary arrangements.

  There was no answer… on either line. She tried several more times.

  Nothing. Not even an answering service.

  She shook her head. None of this made sense. A glance at the death-count sub-routine and her jaw dropped.

  Fifty-million dead? And that was just in North America. In Europe, it was the same. In Asia, over twice that number had been reported. The African continent reported similar statistics. At least the numbers had stopped moving.

  Wait. They stopped? Was the feed even working? She queried the reporting agencies only to find the sites were offline. The numbers were static. All had stopped during the night.

  What the hell is happening?

  She crossed the room and grabbed her phone. She called Tom. No answer. A quaking sensation radiated out from her core. She dialed again. Nothing. She punched in the numbers to Alice's phone and received a steady warbling tone.

  Pulling up internet news reports returned the same results. Either she retrieved static pages from last night, or she got error reports. The servers and routers were functioning. There was no new content. The entire world had gone silent.

  She needed to talk with someone, anyone.

  A few minutes later she found Mark. His body lay in his bed along with a stain of his blood. She clutched her belly and rode the rising tide of nausea.

  He hadn't been sick last night.

  Her salivary glands went into overdrive. The thick acrid taste of vomit tickled the back of her throat, and she lost the battle, gagging as the contents of her stomach spewed forth. When there was nothing left to throw up, she ran to the kitchen to rinse out her mouth.

  As she passed Angel's room, another blow fell. The grisly body count rose. The cook's body lay sprawled on the floor. Elise gagged against dry heaves. Blood and death filled her nostrils, cloying at the roof of her mouth.

  She struggled at the door leading from the kitchen to outside. Her hands shook so hard that she fumbled with the latch. It took three tries to open the door. The Jameson's lived in the small cottage behind the garage. There was no response to her frantic knocking. She peered through the windows calling out. The door to their small house creaked as she entered.

  "Mr. Jameson?" Her voice sounded loud, bouncing against the walls. She pressed forward, moving to the bedroom.

  They lay together in bed. Bloody eyes. Bloody mouths. Hands clasped together.

  She ran outside and collapsed in the garden. How did they die so fast? When did they get sick?

  The sun stood high in the sky, proud and majestic, taunting her with its radiance. She sat frozen, unable to move for hours.

  Chapter Ten

  Monday, February 7, 2035:

  Midnight had come and gone before she had the graves dug. Thank goodness for Mr. Jameson's backhoe, because there was no way she would have been able to dig five graves by hand. It took hours to learn how to operate the thing, and the graves were the ugliest furrows she'd ever seen, but they would do. There'd been no one to call for help. She collapsed on the couch at two am, exhausted.

  Somehow, she drifted off, because she didn't remember closing her lids. She groaned against protesting muscles as the morning sun shone through a crack in the curtains and forced her awake. Purpose propelled her into action, dragging her outside.

  She surveyed the spot behind the garden she’d picked for her grandfather's grave. It was near the rose bushes he loved so much. He would be at peace there. His had been the last grave dug. By then she'd figured out the backhoe. Of the five graves, it looked the most like a proper square hole in the ground.

  She hoped the others would be okay with her putting them behind the Jameson's cottage. It had come down to a matter of practicality: where Mr. Jameson parked the backhoe where the soil was soft, and where her first tentative digs with the backhoe began, and finally, how far she could drag the bodies.

  The rose bushes were some distance from the house. She hadn't figured out how to move her grandfather's body so far by herself.

  By ten am, she had Mr. and Mrs. Jameson settled in the ground. It took much longer to bury Mark and Angel, but only because she had to figure out how to move the bodies. A wheelbarrow provided an inelegant, but practical solution.

  At noon, she covered the last casket-less grave behind the cottage with dirt. Only one more to go.

  She glanced up into the cloudless blue sky. Sweat soaked her back, streaked down her face, and trickled between her breasts. She had long since discarded her lightweight jacket as her labors heated her from the inside out. Dirt coated her hands and dusted her clothes. Her long brown hair, pulled into a pony tail, hung matted with sweat and dirt. The crisp winter air blew through her sweat-soaked clothes, chilling her within moments of stopping work. Her eyes lifted skyward, searching, and narrowed with the pain of her loss.

  They had done this. Their visitors from
space had brought this destruction to her world. Whatever safeguards her grandfather and the Global Corps Space Agency had put in place had failed to protect them.

  She shivered as a gust of wind blew past. Before stepping inside, she said a prayer over the graves. There was one more to fill, but she needed a break before dealing with her grandfather.

  Her thumb swiped at her phone, activating it. Tom's number flashed on the screen. She stabbed at the redial button and listened. No answer. Her fingers gripped the phone, trembled, and then she put it back in her pocket.

  Back inside the mansion, she headed upstairs. Already her chest tightened with the thought of what needed to be done. After walking into his room, she stared at the shape of his body beneath the sheet. There would be nothing dignified in this funeral.

  "Sorry Gramps."

  She bit her lower lip as she set to her grisly task. A lot of thought had gone into how to move him and there was no easy solution. He’d been a large man, and she was a small woman.

  With a tug, she freed the four corners of the bottom sheet. The coppery smell of blood made her wince. She wrapped his body tight and used several of his belts to secure the sheet. Then she grabbed the end of the bundle and dragged him downstairs. Each time his feet thudded against the stairs, she cringed.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  But, there was no other way.

  The wheelbarrow waited at the bottom of the staircase. With great difficulty, she maneuvered his body inside. Her labor became much easier once she had loaded him in the wheelbarrow.

  As she wheeled him out to the far garden, she said her goodbyes through choked sobs. The wood of the wheelbarrow roughened her palms. Her shoulders protested against the weight. But, she didn't readjust her grip or ease the strain on her shoulders. She needed to finish this, and was afraid if she stopped, even to adjust her grip, she would never find the strength to continue.

  After she covered the graves, she walked to the end of the drive, to the barrier of the Comwell Estate gates. Locked, they kept her inside, quarantined and safe, but she didn't think it mattered anymore.