by W. J. Lundy
The Deadly Thirst
By W. J. Lundy
V6.9.2016.01
The Deadly Thirst
© 2016 W. J. Lundy
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Some places, especially military locations and facilities are intentionally vague or incorrect in layout and security perimeter. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
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Prologue
He moved slowly through the plane’s fuselage, following the stampede of smelly and sleepy passengers being corralled toward the exit. Still weary from the long flight and constant elbow rubbing with an obese man in the seat next to him, he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to relieve a sore neck while holding his contempt for the dry bagel and hard rubbery substance they called cream cheese.
“This is no way to treat a senior purchaser for The Orchard” he scoffed to an attendant as he left the plane.
She smiled, hardly making eye contact. “Thank you for flying with us, goodbye,” she said with a cheery tone and flashing her brilliant white teeth.
He may as well have been speaking to himself; nobody cared about coach passengers, and when he had allowed them to re-book his seat after mishandling his reservation, that’s what he’d become. Instead of one of the most talented distributers of English Cider that enjoyed all the luxuries in life, he became livestock. Nothing more than a bit of cattle crammed into the back of a plane. When he agreed to this excursion, one of his only demands to Doctor Winchester was that he travel at the minimum of business class for the Atlantic crossing.
Nigel shook his head. “This has already gotten off on a sour note, most likely as sour as the cider he was traveling to taste.”
He followed the herd to the baggage claim, taking his time, allowing the cattle to pass him by. He checked his wristwatch and synchronized it with the local time. Ahead, he spotted a man with a cardboard sign with Nigel Emmerson along the top and The Orchard stenciled at the bottom. He could see the man had already retrieved his roll-away luggage. “Well, at least something is going right,” he said, pointing a finger to the man and receiving a warm smile and nod in return.
“Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Emmerson, but Doctor Winchester has requested that I bring you directly to the festival,” the driver said.
“This is absurd; I haven’t had a shower or a proper meal in thirty-six hours! What is the meaning of this?” Nigel said, realizing that his nightmare journey was still in progress.
“Doctor Winchester sends his apologies, but the festival could not be postponed solely on account of your late arrival. On the plus side, as a special guest to the host, you will be staying on-site. We have already checked you into one of the finest rooms at the estate.”
“I would prefer to stay in a hotel,” Nigel grunted.
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry; all guests for tonight’s presentation have been provided on-site accommodations. “Doctor Winchester insists.”
“So I’m not so special after all? This appears to be a theme with Doctor Winchester.”
The driver looked at him with a confused expression. “Excuse me?”
He clenched his jaw, seething inside but knowing it was a losing battle. Nigel had a history with the Winchester family, a history of bad reviews and refusals to distribute their fruity version of a cloudy cider. All of this history had brewed plenty of bad blood between them. Nigel didn’t know why Winchester took it personal, most people just ripped up a rejection letter. Heck the majority of Nigel’s product reviews were rejections, it was sort of his specialty. Customers counted on The Orchard to select and distribute only the finest ciders, fizzy alcho-pops would never make the cut as long as he was on the selection board. Nigel smiled reflecting on the witty critiques he would impose on small time distillers and brew masters.
Why Winchester would bother to invite him back, just for more punishment was beyond a reasonable man’s comprehension. Why couldn’t he just send a sample like a normal person instead of demanding his attendance at this unveiling? He looked at his watch–already beyond 7:30. The driver was correct; as it was, he would already be well over an hour late and the festival was scheduled to end at 9 PM... At least staying at the estate he could slip away and escape to his room unnoticed. “Very well, let’s go, Driver.” He said in a posh English accent.
The man reached down and lifted the bag. “This way, sir. And by the way, I am not a driver.”
After a sarcastic laugh Nigel said, “Do you drive the car or not?”
“I am Alexander, Doctor Winchester’s research assistant.”
“Of course… he sends his secretary.” Nigel sighed impatiently before continuing. “And how is it you were chosen to retrieve me? The good doctor too stingy to hire a proper car?” he said, struggling to keep up with the younger man’s long strides.
Alexander stopped and turned back to face him. “No, not at all. I’m sorry if you misunderstood; the doctor asked me to pick you up personally so that I may help get you up to speed on our product.” Alexander motioned a hand toward a black sedan. “You know… as you missed the opening presentation.”
Nigel, feeling somewhat embarrassed by his outburst, dipped his chin. “Yes, of course.”
With his bags quickly dropped in the trunk, Alexander ushered him into the back seat of the sedan. He slid across the black leather and found a bound portfolio folder on the seat. He lifted it up and looked at the embroidered seal–the company logo of a Green Apple emblazoned with an infinity symbol.
“Everything is there in the guide; Doctor Winchester is very excited to present you with it,” Alexander said, looking back at him from the vehicle’s rear view mirror. The driver eased the car into gear and wound his way out of the short term parking garage.
Nigel pressed back into his seat and hefted the book. It was heavy and well crafted; they spared no expense in presentation at least.
“I hope they spent equal parts money to produce their cider” He smiled to himself, enjoying his own witty sarcasm. He flipped through the first several pages, finding the piece put together like a pharmaceutical prospectus. “Winchester remembers that I am not easily impressed I see.”
He had seen plenty of beverage makers try to boast the health aspects of their ciders in the past; this was nothing he took seriously. The Apple Cider Vinegar market was all a hoax, nonsense in his opinion, and there was no sense in trying to combine the two fields. But people insisted on breakthroughs, trickery and hocus pocus, added herbs, or some special process to relieve aches, help with weight loss, or high blood pressure. “Why must they make a mockery of it all?” he scoffed.
“Excuse me, Sir.”
Nigel ignored him and continued flipping the pages. It was not something he wished to waste his time with. This was nothing a respected organization like The Orchard should be taking seriously. However, on this occasion, Doctor Winchester was paying the full tab. And pay he did; enough that his executive board demanded Nigel attend, and give a fair and honest opinion of the products sales potential.
The back page of the portfolio was a widespread pull-out chart with sample readings of before and after blood levels. He laughed audibly when he looked at the results.
“Do you have a question, sir?” Alexander asked.
Nigel smiled and looked up. “I’m no doctor, but if I’m reading this correctly, you are claiming that Doctor Winchester’s
cider will boost growth hormones, Cortisol, Dopamine, Calcitonin, and all of these things to extraordinary levels from what? A jug of cider?” he said laughing. “Is this supposed to be a joke?”
Alexander shook his head, visibly offended. “No, not at all; you have a misunderstanding of the product. It’s not the cider... it’s the Infinitum apple. Doctor Winchester has discovered a method to synthesize and extract specific proteins. He has been able to energize some while allowing others to remain dormant to not only boost natural levels, but encourage the body to do it on its own. At extraordinary levels.”
“Then why a cider? Why not just eat the apple, or make a pill, a vitamin?” he spouted sarcastically. “I am not amused with gimmicks to sell snake oil.”
“You still do not understand. Yes, the Infinitum is the key, but the infinitum apple alone isn’t enough; it needs to be massaged and handled with respect until perfected.”
Beginning to feel annoyed, Nigel interjected. “Okay, I get it, it’s a drug. Now in layman’s terms, what exactly is it?”
Alexander smiled brightly, looking back. “It’s the Fountain of Youth!”
Nigel laughed again and closed the book, letting it fall to the seat beside him. “Well, for the good doctor’s sake, I hope it finishes well.”
The car slowed and turned into a narrow drive filled with luxury vehicles. At the end of the lane, Nigel could see well-dressed valets in red jackets with the company logo posted in front of a limestone walk leading to a tall ornate building.
“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, Mr. Emmerson,” Alexander said, pulling the car along the curb. “Your baggage will be delivered to your room; you’ll find Doctor Winchester inside.”
Before the car came to a complete stop, the valets had pulled open the door. A man with white gloves held the door back and stepped aside as another approached the driver’s window and retrieved Nigel’s invitation and welcome package. “Please, sir, right this way,” the man at the door said.
Nigel followed the man up the steps but suddenly stopped near the top, seeing though the open double doors leading into the ballroom. Something wasn’t right about the party. The room was dark, blue strobes and laser lighting flashed. Long cloth covered tables were arranged in the format of a formal tasting, but that was where the traditional ended. Chairs had been kicked over, bottles lay on their sides. A white fog covered the floor. Loud music thumped and reverberated out into the open air. He hesitated and began to step away when Alexander reached out and grabbed his arm.
Shocked to see his driver by his side, he pulled away. “Please, it’s okay; come,” the younger man said, releasing his grip and walking into the darkness. “You are late and much of the formalities of the evening have already ended.”
Nigel, not knowing what else to do, followed the man inside. “What’s going on here?”
Alexander gave him a concerned expression, “Why it’s a celebration of course.”
“Celebration?” Nigel asked with a scowl.
“Yes, of a great discovery. Please come along, Doctor Winchester is eager to see you again.”
As he entered the room, he saw people—young and old alike—thrashing and twitching on the dance floor. Guests held bottles of cider in their fists, drinking it directly from the vessels. Shards of broken pint glasses crunched under his feet. This was no festival; no formal cider tasting like any he had ever seen. He quickened his pace to keep up with Alexander, who was now near the front of the long ballroom. A man in a white lab coat stood beside a long mahogany table with filled pint glasses covering its surface. He had the likeness of Doctor Winchester but years younger than Nigel remembered him.
Behind the table, more men in red jackets emptied cases of cider bottles, refilling glasses and even handing full bottles to twitching guests thirsty for more. Again Nigel hesitated, looking to turn and find a way out of the maddening event. Before he could move, the man in the white lab coat approached him with a glass of the golden cider in his hand.
“Ah… Nige Emmerson I presume. The famous buyer and distributor of the world’s finest ciders – So glad you could make it,” the man said, using Nigel’s nickname. Nobody called him that outside of a circle of friends. Even his handlers at The Orchard would never speak to him in such an informal manner.
He snapped back into focus and looked the man up and down. “And who might you be, a relative of Winchester?”
“Why… I’m Doctor Winchester himself of course, and this is my event,” the man said jovially, extending the glass in Nigel’s direction.
Nigel clenched his fist and took a half step back. “I think there has been a misunderstanding. I’m a purveyor fine ciders; I don’t do raves, and I don’t make a spectacle of myself.”
Doctor Winchester held his smile and took a step closer. “Yes, of course, I recall Nige, but this is a friendly event. Please relax, drop the formalities, and enjoy yourself.”
The man’s charm and personality disarmed him. He was tempted to turn away, call a taxi, and find the nearest hotel, then call his boss and demand the next flight home. However, given the man’s demeanor, what harm could a drink do? He still wouldn’t have to sign a distribution contract, or even acknowledge his presence at such an event. He stiffened his back and straightened his jacket.
“Very well then,” he said, accepting the glass.
Chapter One
The quaint neighborhood was motionless; cars lined the street; dogs barked in the distance. On the horizon, Wyatt could see a helicopter making slow passes; plumes of whirling black smoke filled the sky behind it. These were not spring wild fires; the city was burning, or at least part of it was. A series of high-pitched tones startled him and he turned to look at the television. The picture was back, the wide, colored bars replaced with a broadcaster’s face.
The young woman’s shaky voice filled the room. Wyatt stepped closer to the television, focusing on the pale and gaunt face of the woman. She was familiar to him; a regular on the local news. Usually well dressed, today she wore no jacket and her hair and makeup looked stale. At the start of the crisis, she had been on almost non-stop; the first to announce the emergency evacuations, and the first to try to calm the people’s fears. Then came the rolling power outages and the sudden loss of TV signal. Wyatt thought every station was out until he found the local six news station with the bar pattern.
He moved across the room and stopped directly in front of the screen. Even though the professional newswoman attempted to hide it, Wyatt could see the fear on her face. The tightening of her brow; the widening of her eyes. Far more was going on than an explosion at a chemical plant as the early reports had claimed. The woman’s attention locked on the paper she was reading and her expression hardened as her eyes drifted to look off camera for a confirmation before looking back with worry.
“This just in from the Emergency Management Agency. Because of wide spread looting and assaults against local law enforcement, there is now an enforced twenty-four-hour curfew and travel ban in effect.” Wyatt scrunched his face and looked into the street. “Looting? There’s nobody here. Everyone’s gone. Who could be looting?
The broadcaster paused, her lips moving but no sound left her mouth as she read ahead on the page; she again looked off screen then stared at the camera. She coughed and steadied herself.
“All evacuations have been halted; only authorized personnel with the correct identification will be permitted to travel. There will be no medical assistance within the containment zone. There will be no emergency response while the curfew and movement restrictions are in effect. Anyone attempting to breach the perimeter is subject to lethal force. Due to the increased toxins in the air, all residents of the greater Forest Park area are ordered to remain indoors until air quality can be tested.”
“Containment zone?” Wyatt looked down at his palm and the car keys in his hand, he dropped his head. “Well, I always was a day late and a dollar short.” He forced a smile and tossed the keys to his coffee table.
“Time to bite the bullet and call for help.”
He knew he would be in trouble for violating the mandatory evacuation order, but he had to let someone know he was still in the city. He looked at his phone and considered making the call. Of course, they said no help would come, but he could at least get some information; let them know he was okay.
Lifting the smart phone and rolling it in his hand, he could see the no service indicator, his battery nearly dead. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to call now that the choice had been made for him. He powered the phone off and back on, holding it over his head to get a signal. Finally, Wyatt sighed and tossed the phone to the table with his car keys. Looking into the other room, he could see his duffel bags and overstuffed backpack by the front door. The reporter continued on, but Wyatt lost interest; all of his focus was set on leaving. He moved back to the window and looked at the street filled with abandoned cars. Most of them left there during the previous day’s chaos.
“Not like I would have made it down the street anyhow,” he tried justifying to himself.
After the evacuation order went out, everyone followed the evacuation routes, staying on the main streets leading to the interstate and out of the city. Soon roads and intersection became blocked, forcing traffic to trickle down into the subdivisions as everyone looked for a way out.
Wyatt watched the chaos from his porch, waiting out most of the madness. With no money for a hotel and unexcited about the possibility of spending days in an overcrowded shelter, he was not eager to leave his home. He finally decided on going to the mountains for a few days. He took his time to pack his bags, hoping to leave after dark once the traffic cleared.
He watched people leave their cars and continue moving on foot while carrying their meager belongings. Wyatt waited patiently, biding his time watching from his porch as most of his neighbors joined the procession leaving the neighborhood. He knew of a small campground up in the foothills, a perfect place to vacation while the fire department knocked down the chemical plant fire and the air returned to safe levels. He was sure he could make it there; once he hit the highway, it would be easy to find a ride.
