Spore Series (Book 1): Spore

by Soward, Kenny

She arrived at the northwest corner of a large building that housed several federal agencies, none of which she remembered from her tour of the city months ago. Etched out of the corner was a small park with benches and bushes.

  Kim cut across it, leapt a park bench, and nearly ran into an overturned popcorn cart. The owner lay sprawled on the sidewalk with telltale signs of death by infection.

  The street stretched ahead of her with neat squares of grass on the sidewalk, centered by trees. Between them were benches a dozen or more people had occupied. Their bodies were sprawled on the ground in front of the benches, some leaning back as if the tendrils had caught them napping.

  She focused on the sidewalk, on running. There were objects ahead—bodies, street signs, garbage cans—that would knock her flat if she ran into them. And if she fell or somehow lost or broke her mask, she’d likely die.

  The gentle clicking of her breathing apparatus was like the beat of a metronome, and the mask’s rubber seal itched her skin like mad. But she couldn’t take it off. Couldn’t so much as put her finger between the mask and her skin. Halfway down the block, sirens blared as three police cruisers whipped around the corner, tires squealing as they raced past her in the opposite direction, heading west. Kim turned to watch them fly by in her tiny window of vision, and she noted spore tendrils spread across the windows and police lights, windshield wipers stirring it up like black powder and whipping it up into the sky to continue spreading.

  Kim’s foot caught on something big and soft and heavy. She cursed, toppled forward, and threw her hands out to catch herself. Furious fire ignited her palms as they struck the concrete with all her weight behind the landing. Her shoulder jolted, and she clenched her teeth down on a cry. Kim jerked her hands to her stomach, unsure if the spore tendrils could get into her bloodstream through an open wound.

  Still in pain, she tried to rip her blouse to use as a bandage, but the material was too thick and strong. Her fingers found a spot on her shirt that had been torn during her flight from the restaurant. Fingers placed into the holes, she ripped two long strips away and wrapped them around her hands, balling them into fists to protect the scrapes.

  Kim got to her feet and staggered a few steps forward when the faint sounds of a child crying reached her ears. She lurched to a stop, turning slowly to see a little boy of about five laying with his arms stretched across a woman’s corpse and a scarf wrapped tightly around his face. It was the corpse Kim must have just tripped over.

  Glancing around for any immediate signs of danger, Kim approached the boy and knelt beside him. The youngster looked up, tears cascading down his cheeks over spots of black that had broken out across his skin.

  “My mom—” The boy coughed and swallowed. “My mom. She won’t get up.”

  Kim glanced at the lady laying on the sidewalk, her flower dress twisted around her legs and the contents of her purse spilled out onto the sidewalk. “She’s sick,” Kim said with a sad smile, a smile she wasn’t even sure the boy saw behind her mask’s moisture buildup.

  “My throat is sore.” The boy put his hand to his neck and rubbed it. He sucked in a deep, wheezing breath through the scarf and coughed. The mother must have tied the scarf around her son’s face even as the spores claimed her, and her actions had kept him alive for a few spare minutes.

  Wincing, the boy rubbed his throat harder and coughed twice more, his body sliding sideways off the corpse with the force of his hacking. His eyes lifted to Kim, confusion filling his face. “It hurts. It hurts bad.”

  “I know, baby,” Kim said. Tears blinding her, heart-wrenching sobs heaving in her chest, Kim lifted the little boy in her arms and didn’t let go until his coughing and shuddering stopped.

  Chapter 4

  Kim Shields, Washington, D.C.

  Fists clenched tight, jaw locked, Kim sprinted down Virginia Avenue. She was blinded by tears and the ever-shrinking window of vision in her mask—it wasn’t made for people trying to run a marathon.

  She shook her head to send drips of water flying off the plastic where they pooled along the bottom of the mask. That helped a little.

  A tall retaining wall made of old blocks of stone ran along the left side of the road. A line of cars coming the other direction had rear-ended each other, the occupants out of their vehicles arguing, coughing, or dying.

  Kim ran until she reached the corner of Virginia Avenue and 4th Street. She turned in a circle, hands on her hips and panting as she tried to regain her sense of direction.

  Sirens ripped through the city, what must have been an army of ambulances and firetrucks, and Kim could imagine the shock and confusion as the local authorities tried to handle the situation. The phone lines would be jammed with callers, with mass confusion everywhere. And when emergency personnel arrived at their destinations, they would be woefully unprepared to deal with the outbreak unless the ambulance driver had gotten her message to them.

  Kim shook her head and walked south down 4th Street. At least, she thought it was south. If her guess was right, it should put her near the CDC office building where she could get inside and reach the department head, Tom Flannery. There was a good chance he was already aware of the outbreak, though he could have gotten caught in the city’s mess like her. Kim might be one of the few people left who could mobilize some response.

  She took out her cell phone, holding it up in front of her face as she walked, wary of the nearby traffic.

  While her mask would make it impossible to speak to Flannery, maybe they could text. She turned her head left and right and moved her phone around, trying to get an unobstructed view of the screen to open the text application. Through the mist, she spotted a red dot over the text icon which showed someone had been sending her messages, though she couldn’t make out what they said.

  Raising the phone higher, she finally read the texts through a clear, one-inch window in her mask. There were messages from her husband, Bishop, and also from Dr. Flannery. Her heart lifted with hope. If Dr. Flannery was in the CDC building, the offices would be secure and he’d be working on a solution. She clicked on Dr. Flannery’s message, hoping to read it and reply that she was on her way.

  The thumping of helicopter rotors startled Kim as a chopper zoomed over her head. She ducked and looked up at the underside as it banked south between the buildings ahead. Thousands of spore tendrils followed in its wake. She caught sight of big letters written on the undercarriage, the call letters of a local news station.

  The chopper swerved left and right through the tendrils, swinging in a wide arc that grew wilder by the moment. Kim clutched her phone to her chest as the chopper smashed into the side of a building. It plummeted five stories to the street and exploded in a ball of flames.

  Kim ran the last fifty yards to the end of the block, head swiveling in search of something that looked familiar. The city was growing more dangerous by the moment, and she needed to find shelter, not waste precious time trying to text people.

  A dozen soldiers with air filtration masks jogged toward her on East Street, though they were on the opposite side of the road. Kim shoved her phone into her back pocket and sprinted across the street as the soldiers turned to follow the helicopter crash.

  “Hey!” she cried, waving her hands in the air as she ran toward them.

  At first, the soldiers didn’t notice her, then one dropped back. He turned and raised the barrel of a very mean looking rifle in her direction. Kim stopped immediately and fished her CDC security access ID out of her pocket and held it out to the man.

  Seeing her air filtration mask and ID, the soldier lowered his weapon. He said something Kim could not understand, and the troop of soldiers pulled to a stop. Kim noticed the soldier’s mask wasn’t fogged up like hers.

  The man approached, narrowing his eyes at Kim’s ID. He looked back and forth between Kim and her picture on the plastic before deciding Kim was a legitimate CDC employee, though she had no idea how he could tell. Her face was hidden behind the fogged-up mask, and
her hair was a tangled mess.

  When he came within a few feet of her, he pointed at the ID. “You’re with the CDC?” His voice carried loud and tinny from his military-grade mask.

  “Yes!” Kim shouted. “But I transferred from the Fort Collins branch today. I’m supposed to meet with Doctor Tom Flannery!”

  “I don’t know the doctors,” the soldier shouted back and pointed over Kim’s shoulder. “But the CDC building is right behind you.”

  Kim glanced over her shoulder and looked into a courtyard cut into the side of a five-story building. There was a single plot of grass in the center with a tall tree sprouting up. A stone bench encircled the tiny plot of land. Several corpses lay on the grass. Scattered styrofoam boxes spilled their contents everywhere. They’d fallen over dead right in the middle of their lunches.

  The courtyard was familiar to Kim, and she recognized a block of security doors at the far end as the CDC entrance.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Kim said, turning back to the soldier. “Thank you so much!”

  “No problem, ma’am,” the soldier shouted back. “Any idea what’s going on here?”

  Kim shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

  “Good luck then.” The soldier gave her a brief wave and backed up before turning to join his fellow soldiers.

  Kim sprinted for the courtyard. The mask was becoming unbearable, and the urgency to get inside and work on a solution twisted in her gut. A moment later, Kim stood at the CDC security doors. On the right side of the frame was the badge reader glowing red around the edges. She peered through the glass, surprised to see a half dozen bodies sprawled on the floor inside. They seemed to have just gotten through the doors before collapsing. Kim imagined they’d gained entrance before the guards knew what was happening, releasing the spore contamination inside the building.

  With a glance down at the badge reader, Kim bit her lip, tasting salt. What if her ID had not been activated yet and she couldn’t get inside? On her first visit, Dr. Flannery had escorted her through the building the entire time. She’d not tried any of the badge readers with her own ID.

  There was only one way to find out. Kim flipped open her CDC ID like she’d done with the soldier and pressed it against the reader. An eternity passed before the glowing red light around the badge reader turned green. The click of the magnetic locks releasing filled her with relief.

  Kim pushed through the first set of double doors and then another set before entering the lobby area. A bank of elevators lay ahead, and hallways leading to various administrative offices branched off to her left and right.

  It was deathly quiet inside, which did nothing to steady her nerves. The only good news was that she was inside and safe from the chaos growing in the streets.

  Kim strode over to the row of elevators and pressed the down button. A moment later, there was a ding, and the elevator doors in the middle spread open. Kim stepped inside, thankful to see no dead bodies for once. She placed her ID against the badge reader below the elevator buttons.

  The reader switched from red to green. Kim pressed the button that would take her to Sub Level One, the entry point for the underground CDC research facility housed five stories below. The fully outfitted, state-of-the-art lab had everything the CDC would need to combat and contain the outbreak; provided there were any scientists left alive. The entire complex ran on its own separate ventilation, power, and communication systems, and had a secure satellite link directly to other highly sensitive government agencies.

  Kim breathed easier as the doors slid shut and the elevator lurched into its descent. The cool air-conditioning was likely not contaminated at the source. However, she left her filtration mask on. There might still be some dangerous particulates floating around, clinging to her skin or clothing.

  The elevator reached Sub Level One and dinged. The doors slid open, and Kim stepped into a round, sterile-looking chamber with smooth walls. Spray nozzles jutted up along the floor and ceiling, and on the far wall hung a mounted monitor and control panel next to the door.

  The monitor flared to life, and the face of Dr. Tom Flannery peered back at her. His dark eyes studied Kim for a moment before he presented her with a relieved smile.

  “Hello, Kim.” Dr. Flannery spoke with calm professionalism. “I’m glad you made it. Please do not remove your mask.”

  She nodded at his instructions, saying, “Hello, Dr. Flannery.” Her voice sounded dead, her legs shaking from exhaustion, palms stinging from being scraped on the concrete.

  “I can’t hear you too well,” Dr. Flannery said in apology. “Let’s walk you through the decontamination chambers so we can get that mask off. Then we’ll talk.”

  Kim started to say, “Yes,” but simply nodded her head.

  “Hold out your arms,” Dr. Flannery said.

  Kim did as she was told. Something hissed in the walls before a cold mist shot at her from every direction. She winced when the mist struck her exposed skin, although part of her was relieved by the cool chemical feel of it. Anything was better than having that creeping, pulsing dust on her.

  After ten seconds, the spray stopped, and the doors in front of her slid open with a hiss. Dr. Flannery asked her to step into the next chamber which was identical to the last.

  “Please remove all articles of clothing,” he said from the wall monitor as Kim stepped to the center of the room. “But leave your mask on.”

  Starting with her hands, Kim removed the bloodstained strips of shirt and tossed them to the ground. She held up her palms to show her scrapes.

  “We’ll have anti-bacterial and anti-fungal creams ready when you reach quarantine.”

  Kim peeled off her sweaty, chemical-soaked clothing, except for her under garments, and dropped them on the floor. She stood there shivering in the sterile room, only her face remaining hot in the mask.

  “No time to be shy,” Dr. Flannery said, glancing up. “You need to remove everything.”

  Kim nodded and removed her undergarments and was subjected to yet another chemical spray. Once complete, the doctor asked her to come ahead once more. Kim groaned and walked, stiff-legged, to the next chamber. It was smaller than the other two, with a long sink that ran the full length of the far wall along with several soap dispensers. Dr. Flannery gazed at her from above the sink.

  “Please step to the center of the room and remove your filtration mask,” he said. “Then drop it in the bin to your left and walk immediately to the sink.”

  Kim stepped to the center of the room and tore off her mask, gasping as cool air struck her itching skin. She tossed the filtration mask into the bin and went to the sink. “Okay, I’m here.” It was wonderful to hear her own voice again and to breathe the cool, sterile air.

  “Using the soap from one dispenser,” Dr. Flannery continued, “wash your hands, face, and hair as you would at home. When you’re ready, step to the center of the room and I’ll rinse you off.”

  Kim followed the instructions to the letter, understanding that failing to do so meant going through the process again. When she’d finished lathering herself in the chemical-smelling soap, she backed up to stand over a drain. “Go ahead, Dr. Flannery.”

  The doctor smiled grimly at her from the monitor. “Tom is fine.” He hit a button on his side of the screen, and ice-cold water blasted over her.

  Chapter 5

  Randy and Jenny Tucker, Center Township, Indiana

  Randy Tucker got out of the old pickup truck, slammed the door shut, and met his sister in the yard. Jenny grinned at her brother and held out her hands. He took a Coke out of the grocery bag and handed it to her before turning to gaze across the corn field that stretched on to infinity.

  “Want to watch them spray the fields?” Randy asked. “Dad’s got the new system installed, but you know Harvey and his boys will be out in full force in the other fields.”

  “Are you kidding?” Jenny replied. “I love air shows.”

  “Especially H
arvey’s,” Randy chuckled. “Amazing the guy hasn’t crashed yet the way he flies.”

  Sharing a laugh, the red-haired twins walked out to a picnic table in the yard and sat down on top, resting their feet on the bench. They popped the tops off their Cokes and each had a drink.

  Randy stared out across the field. The corn wasn’t quite knee high, and the bright green plant leaves shined in the sun. There was no sign of fungal growth on the stalks or leaves, but last year’s fungi could be growing deep in the soil in a wide fungus patch. It was important to spray as a preventive measure before the infection interfered with the crop yield.

  “There’s Mom and Dad,” Randy pointed to the big Durant-Monroe Chemical truck at the far end of the field. Their parents sat inside with the chemical company worker, a giant tank of Harvest Guard resting on the truck bed behind them.

  Hoses ran from the tank and connected to the crosshatch of pipes and tubes that covered their entire field. The system would disperse the chemicals quickly and evenly across the plants.

  “Seems like a lot,” Jenny said, squinting at the field. “Pipes and hoses everywhere. Should have just hired Harvey.”

  “Dad said the Harvest Guard system gives him more control,” Randy replied. “The application will take less than thirty minutes, and he can spray again any time he wants. Plus, it only costs a little more than hiring a plane. Everyone is doing it this year. Well, maybe not here, but everyone east of Fowler.”

  “Think it will work?” Jenny asked.

  “It’s got to work,” Randy replied. “We had terrible yields the last three years. Dad says...” Randy hesitated. He didn’t want to scare his sister. On the other hand, she deserved to hear the truth.

  “We might lose the farm,” Jenny finished for him in a flat tone.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’m not blind,” Jenny said. “Plus, I overheard Mom and Dad talking about it.”

  A small, single-engine propeller plane flew low over their farmhouse. Randy and Jenny ducked as the plane skidded by, kicking up a wind that whipped Jenny’s long, red hair around.