The Tilian Virus (The Pandemic Sequence Book 1)

by Tom Calen

  As a commercial began to play, Mike flipped over to one of the cable news channels:

  …from London and Rome with similar increases in flu cases.

  To another:

  …has said it is rare for the flu to spread globally with such speed.

  And to another:

  …already with more cases than the avian and swine flu combined.

  Mike’s appetite did not return that night, nor in the early hours of Wednesday, as he sat glued to the television screen. Each hour passed with less and less actual new news. Most reports just repeated another; cities across the globe reported massive cases of the flu. It was during the 3:00 AM newscast, however, that something new was announced. The flu now had a name:

  The Tilian Virus.

  Chapter Two

  “Number fourteen’s dead. Mike? Umm…Mike?” came the voice from the shadowed figure in the doorway.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, number fourteen’s dead.”

  “Yeah, I heard you, Paul,” Mike Allard replied with frustration, finally lifting his head from the mound of maps and lists that covered the small work table. Like the table, the room was cramped, worn down, and too small for his needs. The camp was compact, as it needed to be for security, and therefore afforded very little privacy.

  “Well, I’m just saying, the doc is gonna want a new one.”

  “Well, maybe the doc should get off his fat ass and get the next one himself,” Mike exclaimed as his fist slammed on the desk, his eyes angry and glaring, locked with those of Paul Jenson’s.

  Paul stood silent for a moment, letting Allard’s anger fill the space between them.

  “Can I please tell him that?” Paul eventually asked, the sarcasm evident.

  With the bark of an unexpected laugh, Mike chuckled, “Yeah, how well do you think that will go over?”

  Immediately the tension that had occupied the room seconds before was replaced with humor. That was Paul Jenson’s gift. In his late-twenties, older now than Mike had been at the start of the outbreak, Paul served as his second-in-command in the small refugee camp. Mike had bonded quickly with the former park ranger when they met on the road four years ago. With an aptitude for knowing the land, the young man had proven his worth early. Now, years later, Mike had grown to rely on Paul more than any other in the camp, and considered him not only his chief advisor, but also a friend. It was only due to his experience with mountain farming and land development that the refugees were able to set-up the high altitude camp.

  Paul took the open seat by the work table and proceeded to brief Mike on any potential questions or situations that might be brought up in the council meeting. Each week, the core leadership team met to discuss and plan for the camp community. Paul had taken it upon himself to make sure Mike knew as much as he could before going into those meetings.

  Shortly, the two men exited the scant warmth offered by the small room and headed into the chill wind of the Appalachian Mountains of Eastern Tennessee. The camp, which sat on the western face of the ridge, was composed of closely situated wooden structures and the occasional tent. Nestled in a small valley a third of the way to the peaks, the height offered a clear view of any approaching threat from below and ensured no risk from above.

  The refugees had established the mountain camp some three years ago, at the end of a mild winter. Paul Jenson had helped them select the secure location, create small pockets of arable land, and build structures that would survive the strong winds of the mountains. The ragged community had survived its first winters in the mountains and was now preparing for a fourth.

  Crossing the short distance, Mike and Paul entered the community room, the largest structure in the camp, accommodating the small gathering with general ease. The former history teacher took his seat at the head of the uneven meeting table. Paul assumed his usual place standing to the right side of the rear of Mike’s seat. The ranger’s 6’3” frame forced him to slouch slightly in the low ceilinged structure. Mike had long ago stopped offering him a seat, knowing that Paul would continue his refusal and opt to take up his preferred position behind Mike. Secretly, he admitted to himself that Paul was right; the arrangement lent an air of authority to Mike’s leadership.

  “All right,” he began. “Let’s get started.

  As usual, Allen Marena, the camp’s doctor, immediately listed his supply needs. Syringes, vials, penicillin, bandages, more lab equipment, and—as Paul predicted—a new test subject.

  “Doc, it’s been a year and you’ve gotten nowhere with the first fourteen Tils,” interjected Steven Olinder, the head of the camp’s security. The scarred, barreled-chested lieutenant had seen action in both Iraq wars and the responsibility would fall to him and his team to capture another infected for the doctor to run his tests on. Olinder greatly disliked the idea of having a Til, their name for the infected, in the camp.

  With his innate disdain for the head of security, the doctor countered, “And without other subjects, I certainly won’t get anywhere.”

  “Here we go.” This from Michelle Lafkin, who managed the food supply of the refugees.

  Mike sighed inwardly. He could already foresee the arguing that consistently occupied these weekly meetings. The group assembled handled their respective duties with a rigorous attention to detail, but often failed to see the needs of the others as important as his/her own.

  “You’re not the one out there putting lives at risk to get your little pets,” the veteran said through a clenched jaw. Olinder had lost one of his men three months ago in a failed capture attempt. Like most military commanders, he had not forgiven himself for the loss, nor had he forgiven the doctor for the request.

  The short, pale-faced doctor answered, “No, I’m just the one trying to find a cure for the damned thing.” He spat the words with hostile superiority. In the early days of the outbreak, Allen Marena had watched helplessly as patient after patient succumbed to the virus. Much like Olinder, the physician saw each loss as personal attack on his ability as a doctor.

  “There is another option.” It was a request the war hero had issued repeatedly in past meetings.

  “No.”

  For the first time in the meeting, Derrick Chancer spoke. Once a student of Mike’s, the twenty-four year old was one of the original refugees that had survived the attack on the high school six years earlier. Since then, Derrick had survived the hard life of those first years on the road, and now served as the camp’s manager of day to day operations. A deputy-mayor of sorts, if such a thing existed anymore.

  The last six months had aged the young man greatly. Mike had worried that the loss of Jenni had shattered him. In many ways, it had. Derrick no longer had the optimism that had encouraged the others to keep going, even in those harsh early days. The darkness under his eyes had deepened these last few months from too many sleepless nights fraught with nightmares and care-giving. Once clean-shaven, the former running back now sported a full blonde beard, matching his hair in its lack of maintenance. The sparkle of life in his blue eyes may have dimmed, yet he still performed his job ably, and Mike could not bring himself to replace him. Not yet, Mike always told himself, not yet. I can’t take this from him, too.

  “All right. Enough.” Mike attempted to break the tension mounting in the room. There was still business to conduct, and he would not waste any more time on old arguments. “Add it to the list.”

  With a satisfied grunt from the doctor, and a curt nod from the veteran, Mike moved the meeting along to other topics. As always, food was a chief concern. Michelle informed the gathering that while supplies currently remained steady, the approaching winter would require an increase in hunting and foraging. Even with Paul’s knowledge, hunting had still proven more difficult than expected. The camp had once employed the use of traps, but they quickly discovered that the cries of the animals drew the attention of the Tils, forcing the hunting team to rely only on instant k
ill and collect measures. Foraging had proven equally as challenging, not unexpectedly, as any excursion out of the mountains to a more populated area risked an attack from the infected.

  “Lieutenant, how long will it take to prepare a security detail to take Michelle and her people off the mountain to forage for food supplies?” Mike asked.

  “Barring weather, I can get the boys ready and a route scouted in three days,” replied the security officer. The camp had learned the hard way that repeating the same routes too often piqued the curiosity of the infected; the virus having increased their predatory skills. Mike knew that over the next days, Olinder and his men would scout possible paths off the mountain to ensure minimal contact with the Tils.

  “Three days then.”

  Michelle and the lieutenant both nodded in affirmation. Mike still marveled at how a battle-hardened man far superior in age accepted Mike’s command of the camp. Once, when alcohol was still readily available, he asked Olinder that very question. The man replied simply, I’m a soldier. I don’t make the plans, I execute them.

  The meeting continued with an arms update from the lieutenant. The excursion two months earlier to a military base some twenty miles south of the camp had proven worth the risk. The refugees had enough weapons and ammunition to fend off a large scale attack if needed. Of the seventy-six people in the camp, more than half were able to handle a firearm with some amount of skill. Mike hoped that the camp’s mountain location meant that such an attack would not come.

  Derrick was the last to update the assemblage. Some of the refugees had begun complaining of items missing from their shelters—small jars of food, water containers, and such. The items were not cause for much attention, though the idea of a thief in the camp was unsettling. Not willing to move men from perimeter security to patrol the camp, Mike told the young man to tell the refugees to be more vigilant. In the back of his mind he knew, though, that if the thefts continued, stronger action would be required, and he felt uneasy about the result of such action. The community had lived together relatively without incident since the last group of refugees joined them a year ago.

  As the group was about to disperse, Dr. Marena spoke again.

  “Before we adjourn, there is something I think the council needs to be aware of. I don’t know if the old rules apply anymore,” the doctor said with obvious hesitation.

  “What rules?” Mike asked.

  “Doctor-patient rules. But I think, well, for security…Abby Jarvis is pregnant.”

  The word hung in the room with a deadening silence, all eyes turning to the doctor.

  “I thought the council should know.”

  “Are you sure?” Mike inquired with open shock.

  “Well, without the proper tests, no. Pregnancy kits were not top of the list. But, the signs and symptoms are there. My best guess is that she’s four months along…” The doctor’s voice trailed off.

  “Dammit,” uttered the lieutenant under his breath.

  Michelle looked to Mike, seeing the concern clearly etched across his face. “I don’t understand. Why is it a security issue?”

  From behind him, Mike heard his second in command’s voice, his tone a mix of pity and compassion.

  “Because, we don’t know if the virus is still airborne. Or if the baby would be immune to it.”

  Chapter Three

  Sometime in the early hours of Wednesday, the glare of the television had lulled Mike into a brief, dreamless sleep. As the haze of slumber slid off him, he stretched his arms and legs, and was surprised to find himself still on the couch. Mike’s senses began to process his surroundings—the stiffness in his neck, the color images and the low hum of voices from the flat screen. The serenity of those first wakeful seconds was shattered as the previous day’s events came flooding back.

  Reaching for the remote, Mike raised the volume as he sat upright on the sagging couch. Gazelle dashed from her dog bed on the side of the couch and leapt into his lap, covering his face with licks.

  “Hey girl, good morning,” Mike laughed as he scratched her ears and neck. He moved her to his side as his focus drifted back to the broadcast. The anchor, a blonde woman in her mid-thirties, had clearly not found any rest of her own since he had last seen her, hours earlier. Normally a fresh-faced evening newsreader, this morning the strain of round-the-clock reporting was evident.

  Scientists now believed that the flu was a mutated strain of a virus called Inclusion Body Disease virus found in snakes. It was, however, still too early to discern how transmission to humans occurred. Great, Mike thought, first birds, then pigs, now snakes.

  A doctor was introduced by the anchor and he proceeded to list the early signs of infection. They were the standard symptoms of any flu. Elevated temperature, nausea, body aches and chills. His advice at this time was to seek treatment at the first onset of the symptoms.

  “No shit, ya think?” Mike said to no one. As if in response, his cell phone began to ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Mike, it’s Jim Ashcroft,” came the voice on the line. Jim was the principal at the high school. An affable man, he was well-liked by both staff and students. He had been head of the school for well over ten years, one of the longest serving principals in the district.

  “Hey, Jim. What’s up?” Mike asked.

  “I’m sure you have seen the news by now. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I feel fine. How about you?”

  There was a slight crack in Jim’s voice as he informed Mike that both his wife and her mother, who lived with them, had taken ill with the flu.

  “I’m sorry, Jim. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Well, the county has made the decision for schools to be open today.”

  Mike was rather surprised to hear that.

  “With so many parents either in the hospital themselves or caring for loved ones, the superintendent felt that the schools could help out the families by staying open so that the kids that aren’t sick have a place to go and at least two meals to eat,” the principal explained. “If you’re able, we could really use you today. If you have family to care for I totally understand.”

  With all of Mike’s family in the Northeast, he agreed to the request. After ending the call with his boss, he went to his home phone and dialed his parents’ house. No answer. He next tried calling his brother and sister-in-law. Again, no answer. Finally, he was able to reach his aunt on his mother’s side. She informed him that his father had taken his mother to the hospital late the night before. Likewise, his sister-in-law was at the hospital with both his brother and their young daughter. As she continued to update him, Mike pulled out his laptop and began searching for flights home. Most airlines were showing cancellations across the board. The earliest flight was at 4:25 that afternoon.

  “Okay, I just booked a flight up for this afternoon. I’ll be at work until 3:00, so you can reach me on my cell until then, and I’ll call you when I get to the airport. Keep me posted.”

  As Mike prepared to head into work, the anxiety he felt for his family had turned his stomach sour. Forcing himself to eat, he grabbed a bagel from the bag on the counter and got in his truck.

  * * *

  The cafeteria crew was serving breakfast to the hundred or so students that were in attendance. Mike, along with seven other teachers, divided up class lists of the teachers not present and headed to their respective rooms as Mrs. Holigan announced the room changes over the PA system.

  As the students in his room passed around a sign-in sheet, Mike noticed that it was not just a few hundred students absent that day. The teenage energy that filled the halls on a typical school day was also missing, replaced by a somber unease. Soon, conversations of the illness dotted the room. Students began discussing who they knew that had fallen ill. They compared the text messages they had received through the night from friends and family. Several students found themselves crying in the arms of their peers, fearing what might become of their loved ones.

&nb
sp; Mike understood that hours of this type of speculation was not going to be healthy. He turned the old classroom television to the local news channel. Though the picture was fuzzy, the students started to cut off their conversations and watch.

  The estimates had grown since the night before, with the World Health Organization now putting the number of infected at approximately twenty-three percent of the global population. The scale of the outbreak was unprecedented. Minutes later the broadcast was interrupted by a breaking news alert; the image of the presidential seal filled the screen. As the emblem faded, it was replaced by the image of the Vice-President standing behind the podium in the White House Press Briefing Room.

  Good morning.

  My fellow Americans, today is a day of struggle and uncertainty. Early this morning, President Obama was taken to Georgetown University Hospital with what appears to be symptoms of the recently discovered Tilian Virus. Before leaving, the President invoked the 25th Amendment of the United States Constitution, temporarily passing executive powers to me until he is able to return to office.

  Mike was stunned. As a history major, he knew that the 25th amendment had never before been invoked. Even when Ronald Reagan was shot in 1981, he passed his powers to his vice-president yet did not actually invoke the 25th.

  It is with grave respect that I accept this temporary role to maintain the safety and security of our democracy, the Vice-President continued. This flu outbreak has shown how we truly are a global community. Doctors and scientists from around the world are working in a concerted effort to address the needs of those fallen ill and to rapidly develop a vaccine to prevent further infection. I have directed the Center for Disease Control, the National Institutes of Health and the Department of Health and Human Services to make this their top priority.

  In a minute, Regina Benjamin, the Surgeon General, will provide the most recent information regarding the Tilian Virus.