Frenzied - A Suspense Thriller

by Brandon Massey

  Someone jumped onto their front end. The person wore jeans and a red hoodie, the hood drawn over his head. Deacon knew the SUV was outfitted with bulletproof glass, but out of reflex, he prepared to take cover, as he fully expected the insane driver was going to draw a gun and fire at them through the windshield.

  The driver mashed his face against the glass. He spoke in a garbled stream.

  “Crush . . . fuckin smash ‘em to bits . . . crush . . . fuckin’ smash . . .”

  Deacon reeled back in his seat. The man’s eyes were crusted over with horribly inflamed flesh, and dark lesions spotted his face. Blood dribbled from his nose. Saliva sprayed from his blistered lips.

  Shotgun gripped across his chest, Jim stared, too.

  The man head-butted the windshield with enough force to make the SUV’s frame tremble. The reinforced glass held tight. He mashed his head against the glass again. And again. And again.

  “Crush . . .fuckin’ smash ‘em . . .”

  Blood covered his face and smeared the windshield in messy streaks, but he continued to pound away relentlessly. Deacon had seen some terrible things during his law enforcement career, including acts of suicide and self-mutilation that had made him lose his lunch—but he didn’t think this guy was trying to mutilate himself, wasn’t engaging in a pointless exercise of self-punishment.

  “He literally is trying to kill us,” Jim said in a stunned voice. “By banging his goddamn head against the windshield.”

  “Frenzy,” Deacon said. “He’s in a state of total frenzy.”

  “I don’t know what to call it. But we’ve got to stop this. Knock him out and get some cuffs on him.”

  “Any normal person would have been knocked out after sustaining this much damage to his brain,” Deacon said. “These sick people . . . they don’t have normal limits. I don’t know how it’s possible but that’s what’s happening. Remember the dog?”

  Jim nodded grimly. “We’ll have to subdue him. Somehow.”

  Deacon removed the AR-15 from the overhead weapon rack. Jim readied the shotgun.

  “On three,” Deacon said. “One. Two. Three.”

  Both of them flung open their doors. At that same moment, as he was scrambling out of the SUV, Deacon heard the crack of a rifle. Dangerously close.

  Instinctively, he ducked for cover.

  The SUV’s side mirror, on the driver’s side, broke into pieces above his head, bits of glass spraying him.

  “Back in the truck!” Deacon shouted. He dove onto his seat.

  Jim hustled back inside the Expedition, confusion stamped on his face. Deacon slammed his door.

  “There’s a sniper,” Deacon said. “Nearly took my head off.”

  “Seriously?” Jim asked. “This keeps getting better doesn’t it?”

  On the hood, the man continued to bang his head uselessly against the windshield. Bone was exposed. Deacon had to pull away his gaze from the sheer gruesomeness of it.

  Another rifle crack. The bullet struck the rear windshield. Luckily, it was bullet-proof.

  “Fuck.” Jim scooted down in his seat.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Deacon said.

  He shifted into Reverse and fed the accelerator, while twisting the wheel to the right. The sudden movement had the predictable effect of flinging the guy off their vehicle. He tumbled off the hood like a crash test dummy, his blood-drenched face painting a crimson smear across the glass.

  Deacon drove the SUV forward. Their first attacker staggered to his feet and tried to catch up with them, but they easily left him behind. The sniper fired again, and Deacon heard something at the back of the SUV shatter—probably a tail light.

  Deacon ran the windshield wipers for a minute or so to clear away all of the blood. When they were finally in the clear, cruising through a residential area, Deacon glanced over at Jim. Jim still clutched his shotgun against his chest and had a shell-shocked expression: lips parted slightly, eyes glazed behind his lenses.

  “You look how I feel,” Deacon said, breaking the silence.

  Jim blinked, swallowed.

  “We really need to have a chat with that doctor, chief. I need someone to make sense of this for me. Because it feels as though we’ve dropped straight down into hell.”

  ***

  They reached the Take Care Medical Clinic without another incident.

  Deacon parked in front of the facility. A large “Closed” sign hung in the window. A handwritten note was taped to the front door, too.

  “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me,” Jim said. “Closed?”

  “Hang on a sec.” Deacon unfolded a community map that he had brought from HQ. Using a pen, he circled the area on the map in which they’d been attacked by the driver and the sniper. Identifying those danger zones might prove useful later.

  “Keep an eye out, I’ll check the note,” Deacon said.

  Shotgun held at the ready, Jim stood watch near the SUV while Deacon approached the clinic’s front door. A small wooden table stood outside the door, and held only a stack of index cards and a couple of ink pens. The note was taped to the inside of the glass door, black text on white paper.

  Closed until further notice!

  If you have flu symptoms, please put your name, address,

  and phone number on the index card, and slide it under the door.

  For your own safety, please return to your home. Drink plenty of fluids, and rest. A medical professional will contact you soon.

  Deacon studied the bottom of the doorway. Several index cards had been slid underneath the door.

  “What’s it say?” Jim asked.

  Deacon told him. Then added: “There’s staff hidden inside. Or else, why tell folks to leave cards?”

  “They’re not letting anyone in ‘cause it’s too dangerous.”

  “My guess, too.”

  Deacon plucked an index card off the table, filled it out with a message, and slid it underneath the door.

  “Let’s wait in the truck,” Deacon said.

  They had waited for about ten minutes when a slim, dark-haired young woman appeared in the doorway and knelt to gather the cards on the floor. In the shadows, she might have been a visiting ghost.

  She appeared to vacillate over her next move for a moment, and then, she unlatched the door and beckoned them inside.

  Chapter 14

  The young lady who let them inside the clinic was named Emily. She looked familiar to Deacon. He believed he had seen her riding a bicycle around the community in days past. He made it his business to know most of South Haven’s residents, if not by name, then at least by sight.

  After locking the door behind them, Emily led them through the empty, darkened waiting room and down the clinic’s main corridor. Dim, recessed lighting illuminated the hallway. She spoke rapidly, but precisely. Deacon wasn’t sure if she were anxious or if that was merely her nature.

  “Officially, I don’t work here,” she said. “I’m not a physician or even a nurse. I’m a medical school student. I’m a volunteer, for lack of a better term.” She laughed, seemed embarrassed. “I had come here to talk to Dr. Britt, who didn’t come in today, coincidentally.”

  “She’s sick, too?” Jim asked. “Well, just shoot me now, crap.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Emily said.

  “Then who’s here?” Deacon asked.

  “Only the three of us. Here we are.” Emily opened an office door. Two other women were inside, huddled around a desk. Both of them wore the shell-shocked expression that Deacon had grown accustomed to seeing that day, and he wondered about what they had witnessed.

  They did quick introductions. The ladies seemed pleased that Deacon and Jim had arrived, noticeably well-armed and equipped for conflict, and that gave Deacon a sense of satisfaction. At least someone appreciated his private security team. Although he estimated that this trio had been doing a pretty good job of keeping things afloat on their own.

  Emily seemed to be in charge of their little gr
oup, though she was clearly the youngest. In spite of her age, she radiated fierce intelligence and competence. She might have only been a med school student, but whenever she wrapped that up, in Deacon’s opinion she was going to be one hell of a doctor.

  “We came because we were hoping someone could tell us exactly what we’re dealing with here,” Deacon said. “I’ve talked to the cops, and they either don’t have a clue or they aren’t telling us.”

  “They wouldn’t know,” Emily said.

  Deacon went on: “We’ve seen random people losing their minds and attacking folks, and there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. On the way here, a guy tried to run us down with his truck, and then someone else shot at us.”

  “And a dog mauled a woman this morning,” Jim added. “It attacked us, too, when we tried to help her. This illness, this virus or whatever the hell it is, it’s not limited to people. We need to remember that.”

  “We’ve contacted the CDC,” all three women said, almost in unison.

  “Centers for Disease Control?” Deacon asked. “Just so we’re clear.”

  “Centers for Disease Control and Prevention,” Emily said. “But yes, the federal agency that investigates outbreaks. It was my idea. We had a call with them over an hour ago. They’re sending a team here.”

  “Not sure how I feel about that,” Deacon said, thinking about how Mr. Falcon would view this new development. “But you all got any ideas on how people catch this virus? I’d say all of us have already been exposed, wouldn’t you say?”

  “If it’s transmitted like a typical flu virus, yes,” Emily said. “The flu is highly contagious and gets passed through talking, sneezing, coughing. It’s likely that all of us have already been exposed.”

  “How long until we start getting sick?” Jim asked. “If we’re infected?”

  “We don’t know,” Jenn said. “But usually for the flu, symptoms start showing up between day one and day four of you contracting the virus.”

  “Among other things, the CDC told us to keep a list of names, all the people who’ve come here seeking medical attention, as well as any others we’ve observed.” Emily indicated a stack of index cards gathered on the desk. “We’ve got forty-seven potential patients so far. Several more have come since we contacted the CDC.”

  “That’s not counting all of the frenzied I’ve seen out there.” Deacon pointed behind them. “The ones out there wandering the community, I mean.”

  “What did you call them?” Emily asked.

  “The frenzied.” Deacon shrugged. “It just popped into my head.”

  “They’re crazy as wood lizards, the name fits,” Jim said.

  “They’re sick, let’s all remember to keep that in mind,” Jenn said. “Classifying them as monsters doesn’t help our cause. They need to be hospitalized.”

  “Point taken,” Deacon said. “But they’re out of their minds, in a frenzy, and that makes them extremely dangerous. Your job is to treat the ill, and I can respect that. But my job is to protect the residents of this community.” Deacon looked around the room at each of them. “For starters, none of you ladies are armed, and you need to be.”

  “Why?” Jenn asked. “We’re going to wait here for the CDC and then support them when they arrive. We’re here to heal, not harm.”

  “Anything could happen,” Emily said. “It might be a good idea to be prepared.”

  “I can give you my Taser, if you’d like,” Deacon said. “I’m sure Jim wouldn’t mind handing over his if you ask nicely.”

  “I’ll take one,” Emily said, as he’d expected she would.

  The officer manager, Rita, also agreed to accept a stun weapon. Jim demonstrated how to use the Taser.

  “It’s only going to slow them down,” Jim said. “From what we’ve seen, it won’t incapacitate them. I don’t know how it’s medically possible for damn near fifty thousand volts of electricity to only make someone stumble, but that’s what we’re dealing with here, gals.”

  “So now we’re gals,” Jenn said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “What’s next? Will we have to go to the kitchen and rustle up a hot meal for you hardworking menfolk?”

  Jim’s cheeks bloomed fire-engine red. “Sorry about that, miss. Old, bad habit of mine.”

  Deacon’s walkie-talkie beeped. It was Lisa, the security guard on duty at the front entrance.

  “The CDC is here,” Deacon said.

  ***

  Deacon wasn’t sure what to expect with the arrival of the CDC. He had never interacted with the agency in person, had only seen them portrayed on TV and in Hollywood films such as Outbreak and Contagion. In those portrayals, they wore hazmat suits and ordered quarantines, directing the military to round up people like cattle and confine them against their will while they conducted cruel experiments.

  Perhaps his assumptions were off-base, stemming from nothing more than pure fiction, but he was worried, especially about his father. The ornery old man would pitch an epic fit if someone tried to corral him. While they waited for the CDC to show up at the clinic, Deacon stepped inside an empty patient room and called his dad’s nurse on his cell phone.

  “Your father is doing well,” Anita said. “He’s napping right now. He dozed off watching reruns of that old show that he likes.”

  “The Rifleman,” Deacon said. “It’s always been his favorite program.”

  “That one, yes.”

  “He doesn’t seem sick?” Deacon asked. “Like he’s got the flu or a headache or anything?”

  “He’s been fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Just heard about a nasty bug going around. How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” Anita said, and he could imagine her quizzical expression. “Is there something you aren’t sharing with me?”

  “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Call me if anything comes up, and please, keep my dad inside.”

  He hung up before she could question him further. He hated to be short with her, but he didn’t want to incite a panic.

  As he was leaving the room, Emily met him in the hallway. She was alone.

  “Can I talk to you about something?” she asked. “Privately?”

  “Step into my office.” He beckoned her into the room behind him and closed the door after them. “What’s up?”

  “I feel a little silly talking about this,” Emily said. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger in what Deacon recognized as a nervous gesture. “But I’ve been trying to reach my boyfriend all morning. He lives here. His name is Zack Thompson. It’s important that I talk to him.”

  “He hasn’t been answering his phone?” Deacon asked.

  She shook her head. Distress twisted her features. Deacon guessed that whatever her reason for wanting to talk to the guy, it went beyond mere concern for his welfare. But he wasn’t going to press.

  “Where are your folks?” Deacon asked.

  “They’re out of town on vacation and won’t be back until next week. I sent my mom a text and she told me to leave South Haven—I suppose I’m stubborn because I’m still here. Anyway, what do my parents have to do with anything?”

  “Just getting a full picture of things.” Deacon shrugged. “Your guy live here with his parents, too?”

  “I don’t think they’re home, either. I don’t know how to get in touch with them.”

  “Your guy, he could be on site in South Haven. Or not. There are plenty of reasons for why a young man might not answer his phone.”

  “He’s not cheating on me,” she said, steel in her gaze. “He’s not like that. I think something else has happened to him.”

  “You think he’s sick?” Deacon asked.

  Emily grimaced at the suggestion. He could tell that the possibility had been haunting her.

  “I need to find him, like I said, it’s important,” Emily said.

  “Let’s see where things stand after the CDC crew gets settled in here,” Deacon said. “Then if there’s
anything my team can do to help, we’ll do it.”

  She nodded tightly.

  There was a sudden, loud knocking at the front of the clinic.

  “Must be our esteemed guests,” Deacon said.

  ***

  The CDC team had arrived in three white cargo vans, accompanied by a Roswell Police Department squad car. Each of the agency’s vehicles had the blue and white “Centers for Disease Control and Prevention” logo displayed on the side panels. With this obvious marker, Deacon wondered how they had kept the news crews at bay, and assumed that some of the other police department cars on site in South Haven had been ordered to hold back the reporters. The federal agency had enough juice to kick the media copters out of the community’s airspace, too.

  Standing on the sidewalk outside the medical clinic with Jim, Emily, and the others, Deacon figured he ought to call Falcon and tell him what was going on. The CDC’s arrival at South Haven was about the most significant piece of news imaginable. But Deacon had no desire to talk to the rich developer again anytime soon. Falcon had security cameras embedded everywhere and could see what was unfolding, and he hadn’t requested regular status updates from Deacon anyway.

  Screw him, Deacon thought. I may have to follow his orders but I’ll do that however I want.

  “You ever felt just totally out of place?” Jim asked, beside Deacon. “That’s how I’m feeling right now, chief. Like I shouldn’t have gotten my crusty ass out of bed this morning and come to work.”

  “You can still go home,” Deacon said. “No one’s keeping you here against your will.” He added: “Not yet.”

  “Someone’s got to stay and watch your back,” Jim said. “I gave the wife the heads up that I might not be home tonight.”

  The people climbing out of the CDC vehicles looked like scientists and medical professionals to Deacon. They had that intense, hyper-alert look about them, as if no detail escaped their attention. They wore navy-blue uniforms with the CDC insignia on the breast pocket, and they carried laptop bags and other equipment.

  Then Deacon saw the woman, and he sucked in a sharp breath.