Season of the Dead

by Adams, Lucia

  By

  Lucia Adams, Paul Freeman,

  Gerald Johnston,

  & Sharon Van Orman

  SPORE PRESS LLC

  LITTLE ROCK

  SEASON OF THE DEAD

  Lucia Adams, Paul Freeman, Gerald Johnston, Sharon Van Orman

  Copyright Lucia Adams, Paul Freeman, Gerald Johnston, & Sharon Van Orman 2013

  Published by Spore Press

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN :

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  PRINTING HISTORY

  Spore Press eBook/ July 2013

  Spore Press Paperback / July 2013

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  Spore Press Books are published by Spore Press LLC

  SPORE PRESS and the “Spore” design are trademarks of Spore Press

  Edited by Allen Brady / Cover design by Alan Davidson

  Dedication

  For our families

  Acknowledgment:

  We would like to thank everyone who contributed to, encouraged, and inspired Season of The Dead.

  Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

  CDC 24/7: Saving Lives, Protecting People, Saving Money through Prevention

  ****Press Release****

  Effective Immediately:

  The Center for Disease Control has issued a nationwide rabies warning. A particularly virulent strain has been discovered along the U.S.-Canada border. Should you encounter an animal that you believe is infected, exercise extreme caution. Do not approach the animal. Instead, contact your local law enforcement agency.

  In the event of a bite, please seek medical treatment immediately. Do not return to your home. Symptoms include: extreme headache, increased salivation, and aggressive behavior.

  Repeat: Seek treatment immediately in the event of bite.

  We are working towards containing the issue. This release is purely cautionary in nature.

  Contact Information

  Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

  1600 Clifton Rd. Atlanta, GA 30333, USA

  800-CDC-INFO (800-232-4636)

  New Hours of Operation:

  8am-8pm ET, Monday-Friday, Closed Holidays

  cdcinfo@cdc.gov

  CHAPTER 1

  Omaha, Nebraska, USA

  Sharon

  My grandmother, with her thick Kentucky accent, used to say things like, “Don’t stand there blinking at me like a toad in a hail storm.” Now, as I lay on the floor of my bedroom with blood streaming down my face, I had to admit that I was feeling very toad versus hail-like.

  After a long day, I had finally fallen into bed around midnight; sleep claimed me before my head hit the pillow. About six hours later, I was woken by an explosion that rocked my building and startled me to the point where I fell out of bed and smacked my face on the hardwood of the floor.

  I grabbed a box of tissues off the nightstand, held one to my bleeding nose, and swallowed—the taste of iron thick in my mouth. Rising on shaking legs, I padded into the living room.

  My apartment was ultra-modern, very minimalist. To my left was a fireplace, clad in limestone, and flanked by windows. Directly in front of me was a line of windows that stretched from my living room to my high-tech kitchen. I had paid extra to have a view of the Bob Kerry Pedestrian bridge that linked downtown Omaha to Iowa.

  A small giggle escaped me when I realized that the city had only just paid the bridge off last month. Now it had about a ten to fifteen foot gap right in the middle of it. The windows were closed, but I imagined I could hear the metal groan as the tension cables began to snap free.

  I looked up; a pale blue sky unmarred by even a single cloud was the perfect backdrop for the black wedge that was quickly disappearing over the horizon. I lived near Offutt Air Force base. My father had been stationed there. I had attended many an air show. I knew a Stealth when I saw one. I also knew there were several types. I couldn’t tell you which one this was, but I had a sinking feeling about what was going on.

  Walking back into my room, I slid open the patio doors and looked north. The I-80 bridge over the Missouri River had been similarly damaged. I blinked, my stomach clenched, and my heart rate increased.

  They were disabling the bridges over the river. The analytical part of my mind registered that they did not destroy them, which meant that they hoped to rebuild someday, but the more vocal side was screaming that a line in the sand was being drawn and I was about to toe that line. I breathed in the late fall air and tried to calm myself. I would not panic.

  Stepping back inside, I tossed the bloody tissue into the basket, walked into the bathroom, and washed my face, squinting at my reflection in the mirror. I looked tired. My pale skin highlighted faint purple smudges under my eyes; my hair, long and red, was still in a ponytail with the hair band hopelessly tangled. I took a pair of cuticle scissors, snipped it out, and let the unruly mess fall about my shoulders.

  I grimaced at the mirror, ran my fingers through my hair—it was good as it was going to get until I showered—and grabbed my robe. I decided to go check on my neighbor.

  Each floor of my building had three apartments. Rob, who was a major in the Air Force, was gone and had been for several days. His flight crew was on standby, so he was staying at the field house on base. Jenny, my best friend since the eighth grade, lived in the other apartment with her husband, Jameson, and their son, Parker. Jameson was also stationed at Offutt, but part of Global Weather, or AFWA.

  I opened my door and was immediately greeted by screaming—Parker’s terrified screaming.

  I ran to their apartment and pounded on the door. “Jenny!” I yelled. “Open the door!” I slammed my fist on the hard steel, frantic for an answer, but all I heard was Parker.

  Rob, Jenny, and I had exchanged keys on the off chance that one of us lost ours. So far, I was the only one that managed to lock myself out—more than once, if I was honest. I ran to my apartment and grabbed my purse, emptying its contents all over my kitchen counter in search of my keys.

  They clinked against the granite. I scooped them up, the metal cool in my hand, and ran back towards the door. As I passed my hall closet, I paused.

  A few years ago, I had dated a cop. For our anniversary, he bought me a hand gun. To say that I was less than impressed was the understatement of the year. But once I was at the shooting range, firing that weapon and putting neat little holes in my target, I began to see the appeal.

  The boyfriend had long since gone, but the gun was still around. On impulse, I grabbed the hard plastic case off the top shelf, keyed in the code, and opened it, revealing a small Glock 27. I quickly loaded it and ran back to Jenny’s apartment, praying that whatever was going on in there was something I could stop.

  Parker’s screams had reached a new level of terror, sending tendrils of fear dancing down my spine. With shaking hands, I unlocked the door and turned the knob. The security chain kept me from opening i
t all the way. I screamed in frustration.

  “Jenny!” I shouted, pressing my face to the opening. “What is going on?” When there was no answer from her, I shouted for her son. “Parker, can you hear me?” He screamed louder.

  I took a step back, intending to try to kick the door and hopefully break the chain. Suddenly, Jenny’s face appeared in the door, only it wasn’t the face that I knew and loved. Milky white eyes glared back at me, and an arm that had been flayed of skin reached towards me. I screamed in fright, tripped on my own feet, and fell. I scuttled backwards like a crab towards the wall where I braced myself against Rob’s door.

  I had dropped the keys, but still held the gun in my shaking hands. A Glock doesn’t have a safety, just a tight trigger. If you fired it, it was because you meant to. I swallowed as I looked at her. She snarled and grabbed at the door with both hands, yanking on it until the small screws holding the security chain to the door frame began to work their way out.

  Her groaning, drooling countenance glared at me in hatred, anger, and hunger. I blinked again, stunned for the second time in less than an hour. My grandmother’s words came back to haunt me; this was not the time to be slow.

  I raised the gun, just as she flung the door open. “Jenny,” I whispered her name like a benediction. She paused and cocked her head like a dog that didn’t understand what I was saying. As tears streamed down my face, I looked at the sister of my heart, and fired.

  She fell to the floor, dead—again—and I threw-up.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sarnia, Ontario, Canada

  Gerry

  On the heels of the outbreak of the Hauksson virus, airport security footage of an unidentified, infected man savagely attacking several of his fellow travelers was leaked to the Internet. The mysterious upload, titled simplyHauksson virus – insanity in Canuck airport – really fukken grose – check this out!!! immediately went viral, racking up thousands of hits in the first hour. Due to the graphic subject matter, the video was pulled a short time later, but the damage had been done. The video had given the disease a face—an ugly one. Also, by then there had been copies made, and copies of those copies.

  You can’t stop the signal.

  *

  Everything is under control. The plague has been contained. No new cases have been reported outside known hot zones. Go on about your business.

  Army vehicles, piece of shit beaters pulled from mothballs after fifty years of decorating a surplus dump, retrofitted with loudspeakers and squeaky clean soldiers, rolled through the streets like khaki-coated ice cream trucks, handing out “intel packets” to concerned adults, and balloons and suckers to their kids.

  At the time, given the speed with which the local government took control of the situation, the majority of the populace was satisfied; all that could be done was being done. Daily town hall meetings were held, an ad hoc committee was created to oversee possible quarantine and evac facilities (an unneeded precaution, ‘They’ said), and liaisons liaised as the community did as they were told. Even when newscasts were blocked out and test patterns populated all but our local community station, we trusted them.

  Yes, we had questions, and voiced them loudly, but their answers made sense to most. I thought—we all thought—things were going to work out and the world would keep spinning. Like any other scare we’d had over the past few years—the West Nile thing, that bird flu, SARS, the Mad Cow disease—this Hauksson virus was nothing more than some upper echelon government assholes making money from disease and misery. Nothing new under the sun.

  Any day now, the Government would come charging up on its white steed, peddling the cure for this disease for the bargain basement price of $149.95. We believed in them because we had to. We’d even buy their cure and smile while we did, because we had to. The alternative was to admit the bogyman existed.

  Believing did nothing to stop the rumours.

  That was the first week. Week two began with frantic phone calls to 911, reporting the mysterious deaths of livestock and household pets. By early afternoon, the mayor had disappeared along with five members of the city council, leaving the town in the care of the local police and a tiny detachment of soldiers.

  That night, the Army’s loudspeakers belted out a new message: that the plague was spreading and warm bodies would be needed to help keep the peace during the difficult times to come. Local Army and Sea Cadets, and Law and Security students at the college were promised full credit for volunteering to fill out the thin Army presence. Doctors were rounded up, willing or not, and housed somewhere within the Army’s temporary command center. In the days to come, the Army loudspeakers had said, doctors would be the salvation of us all.

  Of course none of the cadet recruits were issued weapons. Not at first, anyway.

  A city-wide curfew was enacted, and militia, armed and armoured, took to patrolling the streets in three-man details. Signs were posted on every corner: “Anyone caught on the street without a signed pass will be detained for the remainder of the occupation.”

  Petrochemical refinery workers (process and operations only) would remain under a plant-wide lockdown, but all other nonessential trades and maintenance crews would return to their homes until otherwise directed. Keeping the refinery workers locked in made sense to me. If a plague really was on its way and the men and women who run the refineries became sick, dying from a disease would be the least of Sarnia’s problems. Without key refinery workers present, one minor mishap could spark a chain reaction that would decimate everything within a hundred kilometer radius, maybe more.

  Side note (but relevant): Up until the early eighties, Sarnia, with a population of no more than fifty thousand, was among the top five targets of Russia’s nuclear arsenal. For some ungodly reason, we simple folk wore this fact like a fucking badge. Any fame is good fame, I guess.

  The day that a pack of American jet fighters vaporized the twin bridges connecting Sarnia to its U.S. sister city of Port Huron (effectively pulling up their welcome mat), was the day we-the-people started paying a little more attention to the conspiracy theory rumour mill. Everything wasn’t under control. Contrary to the sugar-coated shit pie the Army had been feeding us, things began adding up for us. When questioned about the bridges, the Army’s spokesman claimed the bombing had been an act of terrorism, and that the perpetrators had already been arrested by the American government. If not for the fact that most of the people attending the meeting had seen the bombing with their own eyes—seen the jets as they fired upon the bridges—the Army might have gotten away with their flimsy lie.

  An angry protester threw a brick through the windshield of an Army Jeep, and a jumpy soldier fired a shot. Next thing I know, I’m on the front line of a full-scale riot, staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

  What could I do? I raised my hands and the cop grunted and spat at my feet. “Fuckin’ pussy. That’s right, step off, bitch.”

  I’m no pussy, but I’m also not stupid. When I stepped back, he turned the gun and drove it into my gut, knocking the wind out of me. Then, in one fluid motion, he spun and fired a shot into the advancing crowd. The blast hit three people, but the poor woman in front took the worst of it. Her raised right arm exploded, and half of her face disappeared in a shower of bone and blood. Pieces of her sailed further out and rained down upon those behind her.

  As the cop raised the shotgun to fire again, I stepped forward, grabbed the gun by the barrel, and drove my fist straight into the center of his face. He fell, and I fell with him, pounding and pounding at his face, deaf to the screams from the crowd, the sporadic gunfire, and answering wails. I hadn’t known the woman he killed, but right then, she might as well have been my baby sister.

  This cop, this random murderer of women, was my first confirmed kill.

  As I rolled away from his lifeless body, I reached for his gun. I’d evened the score with the woman, but these motherfuckers had a lot to answer for. But before I could grab the shotgun, the crowd surged forward, pushing me
before them, driving me head-first into a wall of riot shields and Taser guns.

  I’ve gone over these events at least a thousand times since waking up in this cell, but still don’t know how I didn’t die that day. I’m told that of the crowd that rushed the stage, I was among four who lived. The other three survivors had also been locked up. None of us have been charged with a crime—and I’m certainly not going to offer myself up for killing that cop—but no one’s sent us a lawyer either.

  The ensuing violence the previous day claimed the lives of sixty-seven civilians and an undisclosed number of military and police personnel. The guard who brought my dinner told me that much, but said nothing about any sort of funeral service. For obvious reasons, I didn’t press the issue. I was still reeling over the events of the previous day, and the guard, a guy I remembered from high school (but couldn’t think of his name), looked even more spooked than I felt.

  I thanked him and took my dinner over and sat on my bunk. I figured he’d leave, but he didn’t. I felt his eyes upon me as I sipped tomato soup straight from the bowl. After setting aside the empty bowl, I lifted the lid from the Salisbury steak and cut it into chunks with the provided spork. I popped a piece of meat into my mouth and glanced up. His eyes remained fixed on me. For the first time since his arrival, I studied his face. He must’ve been crying recently; dark circles cradled his eyes, and dried snot coated one side of his tidy moustache.

  Suddenly, his name came to me. Jack. Jack Anderson. I’d dated Leslie, his younger sister, in grade 11. “Something wrong, Jack?”

  He stood there so long I began to think he hadn’t heard me, then he blinked and leaned in close to the bars. “I saw one.”