Resurrection (Book 2): Into the Wasteland

by Michael J. Totten

  “Step back,” Elias said. He was going to close the door. They probably had enough time to drop one more apiece, but they couldn’t drop all four of them, and if they were too slow getting the door closed, the coyotes would tear them to pieces.

  Hughes and Elias stepped back into the living room. The coyotes were at most fifty feet away. Elias slid the door closed and locked it.

  The coyotes didn’t even slow down.

  Hughes felt fear like a cold hand on his neck. They were going to slam into the glass and might even break it. He took several steps back, almost fell into the couch, and aimed through the glass.

  “They won’t break through,” Elias said.

  “You sure?” Hughes said and swallowed.

  “No,” Elias said. He took a few steps back himself and aimed down the sights. “But don’t shoot through the glass. It might hold.”

  The two coyotes in front crashed headfirst into the sliding door, and the two coyotes in back collided into the first two. Hughes felt the whole house shake.

  All four coyotes regrouped after the impact and snarled through the window.

  Hughes blew out his breath. If they couldn’t break through with momentum, they couldn’t break through from a dead stop. Larger infected animals surely could, though. Even an infected deer could break through, but coyotes weren’t quite big enough.

  They paced and snarled and yipped.

  “Upstairs,” Elias said.

  Hughes nodded. He and Elias could pick off the coyotes from an upstairs window.

  Elias led Hughes up the stairs and into the bedroom above the living room. It was a spare room furnished with nothing but a bed and a dresser that was probably empty. Hughes wondered why Elias didn’t offer it to Hughes. Was it because he figured Hughes would be happier having the guest house all to himself, or because Elias didn’t want Hughes in the house?

  Elias slid the bedroom window open sideways and picked off the coyotes with one loud crack of his rifle at a time. He didn’t need any help.

  Hughes looked outside over Elias’ shoulder. He could see a bit farther from upstairs. The tiny ridge that had concealed the coyotes on their approach to the house was below him now. He saw a smaller pack—just four of them—off in the distance drinking from the creek that ran down from the mountains and into the gulch next to the house.

  “Got ’em all,” Elias said. He shut the window and loudly exhaled. “We’ll have to burn those bodies and scrub down the deck with soap and boiling water.”

  Hughes nodded. The deck was a biohazard now with infected blood splattered all over it.

  He looked out the window again. The four coyotes were still drinking from the creek. If the deck was a biohazard, the creek would be as well. The animals were getting their infected saliva into the creek.

  “Where does your water come from?” he said to Elias.

  Nash arrived at Steele’s house and found Steele pacing back and forth in the living room. “I came as soon as I heard,” he said.

  The house smelled like a homeless camp. Nadia was sitting on the couch with Charles’s head in her lap and stroking his forehead. The kid’s face was clean—she’d probably wiped it down with a washcloth—but his hair and clothes were still matted with filth.

  Nash crouched next to the sofa, removed a pen light from his bag and shined it in Charles’ eyes. The boy’s pupils contracted, but he otherwise didn’t react. Nash snapped his fingers next to Charles’ ears. Again, no response.

  Charles hadn’t used a proper toilet for weeks and Nash had to breathe through his nose or he’d gag.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Nadia. “Can you give me some room here?”

  She nodded slowly and scooted down to the other end of the couch. He could tell she’d been crying.

  Charles’ head flopped back. His vacant eyes turned toward the ceiling and focused on nothing.

  Nash took Charles’ right hand, lifted the boy’s limp arm and let it drop. He moved Charles’ arms and legs into awkward and uncomfortable positions. Charles did not move or resist. Nash could manipulate him anyway he wanted.

  Steele was still pacing. He needed something to do.

  “Can you bring me a fork from the kitchen?” Nash said.

  Steele went into the kitchen. Nash heard him yank open a drawer and slam it shut.

  Nash closed his eyes for a moment. There was no telling what might set Steele off. He had to be careful, especially with what he planned next.

  Steele returned to the living room and handed Nash a fork. Nash used it poke the palm of Charles’ hand hard enough to cause pain but not hard enough to break the skin. Charles winced. It was the only thing Nash did that got a response.

  “He’s catatonic,” Nash said.

  “He’s a vegetable,” Nadia said and covered her face with her hands.

  “Is he going to come out of it?” Steele said.

  “Have you ever seen him like this?” Nash said.

  Steele shook his head. “Every time I went into the basement to check on him he was…you know. You saw him.”

  “Did he ever have symptoms like these before he was infected?”

  “No,” Nadia said. She sounded far away, her mind in another place.

  Nash took a deep breath and stood up.

  “Well?” Steele said. He stood there with his hands on his hips.

  “He might come out of it,” Nash said. Nadia wouldn’t look at Nash or her husband. “And he might not. He’s been in a state of extreme agitation and distress for more than a month now, and there’s no way to know how much damage the virus has done to his brain.”

  Nadia sobbed.

  “He does appear to be cured, though,” Nash said.

  “You call this a cure?” Nadia said.

  “The infection is gone,” Nash said. “So are the symptoms. I’d like to tell you he’ll make a full recovery, but we’re in uncharted territory here.”

  Annie’s blood serum either killed or weakened the virus. That was clear. Nash didn’t know if the virus had ravaged Charles’ brain beyond repair or if the boy was so traumatized that his conscious self hid in a dark corner and refused to come out.

  “What do we do?” Steele said.

  “I’ll take him to the hospital,” Nash said. He’d like to give the kid a bath first.

  “No,” Steele said. “Not yet.”

  That was a mistake, but Nash didn’t say anything. With any other patient’s family, he would insist, but this was no time to push back against the mayor.

  “Keep an eye on him then,” Nash said. “Give him a bath. Change his clothes. Make him comfortable. You change your mind, send word right away and I’ll come get him. I can hook him up to an IV and a feeding tube.”

  Nadia sobbed again. “He’s a vegetable.”

  “Nadia—” Steele said.

  “We don’t know that,” Nash said. “None of us has ever seen this before.”

  “Hey, doc,” Steele said. “What would have happened if we gave Charles that injection a month ago? Before he turned? Or even before he was bit?”

  Nash nearly gasped.

  My God. Of course.

  His pulse quickened and he felt his face soften in wonderment as if he’d discovered the cure for cancer.

  24

  Annie woke three or four times in the morning and forced herself back to sleep. She had nothing else to do. She wasn’t getting out of her room any time soon, and Doc Nash hadn’t brought her anything to read. She’d get on his case about that next time she saw him, but until then, all she could do was stare at the wall and sleep.

  Boredom. What a feeling. A few weeks earlier, she never would have expected it. Her life had become a thriller. Genuine slack time hadn’t lasted longer than a commercial break, but now she faced the prospect of soul-crushing ennui all the way to the horizon and beyond.

  Before Lander, she’d thought boredom was for the lucky ones, for the safe and well-fed and well-housed, if such people still even existed. Boredom was for peopl
e with nothing to worry about. Parker would surely agree. That man would cling to boredom like a life-preserver in a roiling ocean.

  Not long ago she’d actually yearned for it and the safety that came with it, but she realized now that she’d rather face danger and fear if it meant she also had freedom. A cage wasn’t worse than death—not quite, no—but she’d rather risk death than face the certainty and finality of a cage. That wasn’t even a close call.

  The road to Atlanta was perilous, no question about it, but it had given her a sense of purpose. She’d chosen it voluntarily, she could quit or pause any time, and she could do some real good in the world if she made it. If the CDC was still standing, all she had to do was show up.

  That was the theory anyway. Now she was beginning to wonder. She hadn’t thought about what would happen after she showed up. What would the doctors do with her? Would they lock her up in a room just like this one?

  She heard footsteps in the hallway. Doc Nash’s face appeared in the small window fitted into the door. The guards stepped aside. He knocked and let himself in.

  Something was happening. She could read it on his face. He looked elated and frightened at the same time.

  “Annie,” he said and closed the door.

  “Doc,” she said.

  He had his medical bag with him. He set it on the counter and looked at her. As usual, he had something to say and a hard time saying it.

  “What?” she said.

  “There’s been a development,” he said.

  “What?”

  He pursed his lips.

  “What’s going on, doc?”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “More infected,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “Boiling water works then,” she said.

  “We haven’t had any more cases,” he said, “since we started boiling water, so yes, that seems to be working. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I…”

  “What?”

  “I need more blood from you, Annie.”

  She knew he would at some point. Otherwise, why keep her locked up? Something else was going on. Something bigger. Doc Nash was freaked out.

  “Okay,” she said. “So?”

  Doc Nash blew out his breath. “I need a lot more blood from you, Annie.”

  The guards finally fed the prisoners. They served meager quantities of barbecued meat and splashes of cow milk with stale bread on the verge of molding. No fruit. No vegetables.

  Parker sat alone on the floor next to his cell and stared at his plate. He nibbled a piece of bread, then set it back down. His body did not cry out for sustenance. He was still on the anxiety diet, still losing weight. Some people sought comfort in food when they were stressed out, but stress shoved his body and mind in the other direction.

  The only thing that helped him feel even the least bit better was getting out of his own head, and the only way he could get out of his own head was by talking to other people. So he handed his unfinished tray to a grateful stranger, headed downstairs to the common area and introduced himself to as many people as possible. It was that or sit on the floor and spiral back into the abyss.

  He met all kinds of people, every single one of them more anxious than they had ever been in their lives yet still less stressed out than he was. He met Jack, an editor at the local newspaper, a bank officer named Bill—he didn’t ask anyone’s last name—two pretty young elementary school teachers named Annette and Brittany, a muscular guy named Terry who owned a local repair shop, and a woman named Betty who said she worked as a marriage counselor.

  He nearly leapt at Betty with joy. She leaned with her back against the wall near a row of cells on the main floor.

  “You’re a therapist?” he said.

  “I was,” she said. “Before all this.” She was middle aged, wore thick-rimmed glasses and tied her gray hair back in a bun. She seemed more like an accountant or a corporate middle manager than some kind of a therapist, but Parker figured she had a lot of experience in human psychology.

  “Can we talk?”

  “We’re talking.”

  “I mean privately.”

  True privacy was impossible, but semi-privacy might be managed for a couple of minutes. They stood within earshot of dozens of people, though no one seemed to be paying attention to their conversation.

  “I have a serious problem,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  I know, I know, he thought. Who in this prison doesn’t have a serious problem?

  “A psychological problem,” he said.

  “With your marriage,” she said.

  “I’m not married.”

  “I’m a marriage counselor.”

  “You’re a therapist.”

  She paused, seemingly unsure what to say. “I’m not sure I’m the person you need,” she finally said.

  She was exactly the person he needed. Terry the mechanic and Bill the bank guy couldn’t do shit for him.

  “Who else am I supposed to talk to? You studied psychology in school, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I think I have PTSD.”

  Betty said nothing.

  “Or something like it.”

  “Let’s talk in my cell,” she said. “I can ask the others to give us some privacy for a couple of minutes.”

  Betty’s cell was on the main floor, not far from where they were standing. She led Parker there, asked her female cell mates to give them a couple of minutes, sat on the lower bunk and gestured with her hand for Parker to sit next to her.

  He sat. She folder her hands like a prim school teacher. He wondered if she had that vibe with all her clients.

  “Tel me what’s bothering you,” she said.

  He did not tell her everything. He did not tell her he tried to kill Kyle. He did not tell her that his friends tied him to a chair on a remote island and infected him with the virus. He did not tell her he spent three days as one of those things.

  In some dim part of his mind he knew that patients shouldn’t lie or withhold details from their doctors and therapists. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell her any of that. Perhaps it didn’t matter. The treatment for PTSD was the treatment for PTSD, right? No matter what caused it. Unless, as he feared, the virus caused permanent brain damage, in which case, she couldn’t help him. No one could help him. So he didn’t have to tell her everything. He only had to tell her the main thing.

  “I think about killing everybody I meet.”

  She recoiled from him and looked at the exit. He could tell she wanted to get up and leave and he knew why she didn’t. All she had to do was scream and a dozen people, some of them cops, would rush in at once.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m just afraid I’m going to snap and attack you. Like one of those things.”

  “The infected?”

  He nodded.

  She squinted at him. “How does that make you feel?”

  “How does it make me feel?” he said. Good grief. Maybe she was the wrong person. Was she going to ask him about his goddamn childhood next? “It makes me feel horrible. I can’t imagine anything worse than biting somebody to death.”

  “When you say horrible, can you be more specific?”

  “I’ve been having panic attacks.”

  She nodded. As if she’d heard this before. Her initial alarm seemed to have passed.

  “How much time do you spend worrying about this?” she said.

  “All day. Constantly. I can’t get these images and thoughts out of my head.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “Do you have a history with anxiety?”

  He shook his head. “Until now, no.”

  “How about the rest of your family?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “How long has this been going on
?”

  “About a month.”

  She took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. “I don’t think you have PTSD. Post-traumatic stress is an anxiety disorder, but that’s not what this is. This sounds more like OCD. Obsessive compulsive disorder, which is also an anxiety disorder. They’re related, but different.”

  Parker just stared at her. What she said made no sense. He wasn’t a germaphobe. He wasn’t washing his hands 50 times a day. “That can’t be right.”

  “Are you doing anything to prevent yourself from attacking another person?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like anything. Avoiding people. Staying away from weapons. Biting your tongue. Counting backwards in your head.”

  Parker shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.”

  “You may have the pure obsession form. Obsessive-compulsive disorder without the compulsions. But you might not even have that. What you’re experiencing is a symptom of one form of OCD, but this has only been happening for a couple of weeks, and it’s extremely unlikely that you’d suddenly get OCD at your age, so I think you just have anxiety. It’s very common.”

  “Anxiety?”

  She laughed. “Yes. It’s very common. And this form of anxiety is more common than you think.”

  “It is?”

  He felt flabbergasted. It hadn’t even occurred to him that anyone who hadn’t been bit and infected could suffer like he was suffering.

  “Are you afraid of heights?” Betty said.

  Parker shook his head. His only real phobia, if you could call it that, was swimming in the ocean.

  “Some people who are afraid of heights aren’t afraid of falling,” she said. “They’re afraid of jumping.”

  Parker had heard that before. He couldn’t relate to it, but he’d read about it and had a girlfriend once who was afraid of balconies in hotel rooms. She said the edge seemed to call to her.

  “When some people drive on the highway,” Betty said, “they’re gripped with terror that they’ll suddenly swerve the car into the oncoming lane and cause a head-on collision.”

  Parker had heard of that too.

  “These kinds of fears are common,” Betty said, “but they’re completely irrational. No one who is not suicidal throws themselves off a building or crashes their car on purpose. The fear that they will, though, is a lot more common than you think. Others are terrified by the thought that they’re going to hurt someone, that they’ll suddenly strangle or stab their loved ones or even a stranger. But that’s just it. They’re afraid of their own thoughts. This can turn into OCD if you let it, but it doesn’t have to.”