Virgil’s War
The Diseased World
Larry E. Robbins
Virgil’s War, Copyright © 2019 by Larry Robbins. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Brandi Doane
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Larry E. Robbins
Visit my website at www.LarryERobbins.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: May, 2019
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 1
Pops won the lottery in 2029. One day he was sweating away as a carpenter in the hot Fresno sun and the next he was building a multi-million dollar hilltop survivalist refuge. Pops was a hobby ‘prepper’ at heart and always dreamed of having a place with outrageously expensive gimmicks designed to save us from an imagined apocalypse. It was all in fun and we never really thought the defenses would become crucial to our survival. If he’d only known how bad things would get he would’ve added a few more.
My name is Virgil Cole. My Pops is Dan Cole. As I write this record of events, I am seventeen years old.
Pops and I moved into “Dragon’s Lair” when I was fifteen. We built it on top of a high, green peak in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains. My first look at the view from the building site awed me. From the top of our driveway, I could see the scattered homes and farms around the city of Clovis and on into the larger town of Fresno itself. At night the sparkling of the lights had a mesmerizing effect. The home had twin turrets that climbed three stories above the hilltop providing an even more impressive vista. I loved it all immediately.
Mom had already run off a few years back after she decided Pops was never going to be able to offer her the life of privilege that she felt she deserved. The funny thing was, she found out about Pops and the lottery thing and suddenly discovered that she loved us both all along. She asked Pops to take her back, saying I needed a mother and he needed someone to take care of him. I can still remember him laughing as he shut the door in her face.
Anyway, Dragon’s Lair is the name Pops chose for our new home. I don’t how much money he actually spent on it, but I do know that the lottery win was three hundred and seventy million before taxes. Figure he kept about sixty percent after his tax attorneys finished their job and that gives you an idea of how much he had to spend.
And spend he did. The turrets were concrete reinforced by steel rods and protected on all sides by sheet steel, camouflaged into the construction. Pops said they could withstand anything short of an armored attack or a fifty caliber machine gun. He led me up one of the spiraling staircases on the first day and grinned as he pulled down on a lever disguised as a curtain rod. Two doors opened behind us. One had metal ammunition cases stacked from floor to ceiling. The other held a “Ma Deuce” fifty caliber machine gun mounted on a rail. The rail folded down which enabled a person to wheel the weapon over to the windows. It was on a swiveling base which would allow it to cover a 360-degree field of fire.
Wow!
I asked if the other turret contained a duplicate weapon and he just grinned wider.
Yeah, we were pretty happy there at first. Pops joined a survivalist group that was headquartered in the Pacific Northwest and spent most of his time learning what he needed to know to survive a national emergency. He stocked us up on everything a well-provisioned prepper could imagine. I remember Fed Ex trucks stopping almost every day of the first few weeks, dropping off stuff. I also remember nondescript vehicles winding their ways up the paved road to our place in the dark of night with nervous looking drivers and loaders.
See, in California, at that time there were certain things one was not able to lawfully possess. Mostly, those were various types of guns and other weapons. I would watch curiously as mysterious boxes and crates were wheeled and carried down the long ramp which ran to the warehouse areas concealed under the house.
Anyone getting close enough to observe our home would see what appeared to be a large and richly appointed mansion and it was certainly that. It contained luxuries that Pops and I had only dreamed of in the past. But that was just part of it. The real magic of the place was under the floors.
Our living area on the ground level covered six thousand square feet. Below ground were two hidden levels that totaled over forty thousand more. The first sublevel was mostly living quarters that could accommodate thirty people comfortably. There was a big kitchen with multiple commercial-style freezers and refrigerators, fourteen bedrooms, a large common area and a suite that was for Pops and I should it become necessary to retreat underground. One corner was set up for medical and dental procedures complete with a fully stocked supply pantry.
Our suite consisted of a common area and a bedroom for each of us and was protected by a metal door as thick as a safe. Pops always impressed on me that, in a crisis, one could never fully trust anyone; not even a friend. The armored door and walls provided a place to which we could retreat in case anyone ever abused our trust. There were also several surprises built into Dragon’s Lair in case we ever had to deal with a situation like that.
On the bottom level, Pops had an enormous warehouse stocked with enough food, water, and supplies to support thirty people for five years or more, depending on how we rationed it. This lowest level was my favorite place. I would spend hours playing handball against the walls, pilfer cookies from the stocks, climb on the tops of the shelving and hide from Pops when I had done something wrong. By far though, my favorite part of the lowest level were the two escape tunnels and hatches.
Pops had shown me the hatches on our first day at Dragon’s Lair. He located them at the opposite edges of the mansion. The northern tunnel ran under the swimming pools (yeah, we had three of them) and surfaced into the cut stone and cement walls that surrounded the entire hilltop. The wall here was thicker than the eastern and western walls and accommodated a narrow room inside. The room had another hatch which could be accessed by entering a code into a security pad. Once inside the secret den, a disguised plate could be slid sideways revealing a bank of security camera feeds. From here one could discern the situation on the outside of the wall and determine whether it was safe to exit.
I loved driving Pops crazy by using the tunnels to show up unexpectedly when he thought I was elsewhere. He’d tell me to go do my homework and then find me splashing in one of the pools. He’d put the pools off limits and discover me on the te
nnis courts, and so on, and so on. It was a little game we played with each other and Pops never let on that he knew what I was doing. His face would infrequently let a smile escape and maybe even a chuckle. He was one of those parents who loved to make his child happy.
Pops is a hoot.
Anyone reading this will know about the “Downfall.” That’s what the news channels called it, and it caught on with everyone else. It was appropriate, too, because it was indeed the downfall of civilization as we knew it.
✽✽✽
Station WKBX, Austin, Texas. August 6, 2031
“Good evening folks. More reports today of the mysterious “Rage” outbreak, some of them reaching us here in the Austin area. We warn our viewers that the following video is graphic in nature and younger viewers might be disturbed by them. Parental judgment is recommended.”
The television screen shows a well-tailored man from the chest up sitting at a clear plastic desk. There is a wall behind him showing large WKBX letters. The man is visibly trying to remain composed, but tiny bubbles of perspiration have already formed on his upper lip and forehead.
The scene shifts to one of a street corner in downtown Austin. The video recording is shaky and frequently fuzzes in and out of focus, apparently recorded by a cell phone. In it, a young man is running from four other men of various ages. The terror felt by the lone man is visible. His four pursuers are snarling like rabid dogs while they chased their quarry. Two of the chasers are armed, one with a tire iron and the other, a large screwdriver. The video was filmed from a distance, but the growls of the pursuers and the pleading for assistance from their prey are discernable.
The chase continues until a police car screeches into a space between the man and the pack. The police officers exit their vehicle. The driver points a semi-automatic pistol while his partner levels an AR-15 rifle. Shouts from the officers can be heard, but the four men never even slow down. They plow into the policemen like NFL linebackers. Unlike NFL linebackers they can be seen using their teeth and fingernails against the officers. Bloody wounds started to appear on the exposed arms of the police as their shouts grow more desperate. Finally, the policemen begin shooting.
That’s when the WKBX viewers are horrified to see the attackers show little effects to the apparent bullet wounds. Some of them are now dripping blood and gore on the asphalt street but still trying to savage the officers. One man is seen to get shot in the face. He reels from the wound, then goes back to biting at the arm of the cop who shot him. Another is hit in the leg by a round from the rifle. The man is wearing shorts, and the calf of his leg is torn away. The enraged man never even looks at the wound. He resumes limping after the police officers who are now trying to retreat.
The fear on the faces of the policemen is unmistakable. For their entire career they have been taught that, when a situation gets deadly, they can always count on the safety offered by their weapons. That was not happening here.
Finally, two additional police units are seen skidding around the intersection, coming to a stop near their fellow officers. They see their brethren shooting the men and don’t second guess them. They direct their firepower onto the crazed quartet. Two are hit in the head and immediately fall. The other two keep coming forward, but blood loss has slowed their ability if not their intent. A third falls and scrambles, unsuccessfully, to regain his feet. The fourth man, by far the largest of the group, is now the only target remaining for the officers and he receives their undivided attention. Dozens of rounds from pistols and the patrol rifle strike the behemoth, but he continues to struggle forward. Then one officer leans in to retrieve his shotgun from the car mount. He is seen to rack a round into the chamber and then take aim. The big man is inches from one of the original responding officers when the buckshot hits him squarely in the chest. The crazed man finally stops his forward motion and looks down at the grouping of eight round holes left by the shotgun blast. He looks back at the policemen and tries to shuffle a leg forward but there has been too much damage to his body, and he falls at their feet.
The scene shifts back to the anchorman. He is unaware that he is on camera and is talking to an unknown person who is out of the camera shot. The anchor is wearing an expression of grave concern. He appears to notice the red light on the camera and turns his attention back to the television audience.
“Horrible footage indeed.” He straightens his tie and runs a hand through his hair. “We have previously informed our audience that we have reports of similar occurrences in other major countries around the world, notably Russia, Great Britain, Iran, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Australia and many more.
The anchorman sighed and looked straight at the camera. His eyes are bloodshot, and the sheen of sweat on his upper lip has grown to the point that he finds it necessary to wipe it dry with his sleeve. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think it would be out of line to characterize these incidents as harbingers of a possible pandemic. The speed with which the apparent infections is growing is unprecedented. We have been attempting to get some clarifications from the federal government and the CDC in Atlanta. To date, there have been no responses. We will endeavor to keep you up to date as more information comes in.”
The scene changed to a pretty young woman wearing a smile and a towel, talking about how smooth her skin is now that she is using a particular lotion.
✽✽✽
Chapter 2
Just before the others came to live with us, Pops sat me down and fixed me with one of his trademark serious expressions. Pops was a six-footer with a raw muscularity formed by years of construction work. The callouses on his hands always felt like sandpaper to me. His brown hair was showing flecks of white, but his blue eyes were sharp as lasers. I could always tell when I could joke with Pops, and his face told me this was not one of those times.
We were sitting at the kitchen table in the house itself, not down below in the bunker. He finished with his horrible-tasting but healthy cereal and pushed his bowl away.
“Virgil, we need to talk.”
I did a quick mental skimming of my activities over the last few days and couldn’t recall anything that had been unusually bad in my behavior, so I pushed my own bowl toward the center of the table, wiped my mouth on my sleeve and raised my eyebrows.
“Son, we’re going to have some people come and live with us for the next few weeks…maybe even longer.”
I nodded. It was not unusual for Pops to have engineers and construction people visit us for several days at a time. The unique features that he was continually adding to our hilltop fortress sometimes required days of examination, testing and measuring.
“Okay. More revisions to Dragon’s Lair?”
He shook his head slowly. “No, son. These people are all experts in their fields, and they would be able to help us if… conditions change. With the way things are going in this country, I don’t have any idea what could happen. The government might get a handle on this Rage thing but it might not.”
“Really?” I was a little surprised by his thinking. I was concerned about the things I was seeing on the television. I mean, it’s hard to ignore internet cellphone videos of people being torn apart by crowds using only their fingernails and teeth. But I was still a kid then, and it was difficult for me to digest the seriousness of the situation.
“But Pops, California hasn’t had any reported cases, at least not yet.”
He nodded and slicked his hair back with both hands. He was wearing his pajama bottoms and an undershirt, his standard nighttime attire. “That’s true, Virgil, and we hope, of course, that none ever do show up here. But the Rage is spreading fast, son. The scientists are working hard, but it has only been six months or so since the first cases appeared in the Middle East. The CDC hasn’t even figured out whether it’s a virus or some rare bacteria.”
He scooted his chair closer and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Virgil, when I won the lottery, this whole thing here,” he spread his arms out to take in the mansion, �
��was a hobby. It was something I used to lie in bed and think about while trying to fall asleep. It was just for fun. Then when we hit the lottery…well…when you have enormous wealth, you can make even your wildest daydreams into a reality.”
He leaned forward to rest his arms on the table. “But son, I never thought we would actually need it. For survival, I mean. But, I’ve got to be honest with you, Virg, I’m scared.”
That got my attention. Pops rarely called me Virg, and he was never frightened. I remember one night when our surveillance system showed three men had snuck up the hill and were trying to load copper wire from one of our construction projects into a ratty pickup. We had plenty of firearms around, not to mention easy contact with the sheriff’s department, but Pops knew that the Fresno County Jail was overloaded and had no space for petty thieves. He wanted to make sure this group got the message that stealing from us was not going to be rewarded by a judicial slap on the wrists. He grabbed a baseball bat and eased out of the side door.
I ran down to the surveillance room on the first sub-level and watched the whole thing on our security monitors. Pops had equipped the monitors with night vision, but the thieves had no such ability. They were flagrantly pulling the wire out of several conduits, taping it in coils and tossing them noisily into their truck, fearing nothing, certainly not the police. Pops came up behind one of them as the man was bending over a conduit tube and wound up like an MLB pro. The bat caught the burglar behind the knees, and he went down screaming. One of his buddies turned his head just in time to receive a blow between the shoulder blades. He joined the first thief on the ground, bellowing in pain. The third man came at Pops with a carpet knife, and the two circled each other cautiously. The thief had his eyes on the bat when Pops kicked him hard in the groin. I winced at the sight and involuntarily crossed my legs in front of the monitor. Needless to say, that ended the fight.
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