The Tilian Virus (The Pandemic Sequence Book 1)

by Tom Calen

  I ask, in what seems like a dark time, that we remain resilient in the face of adversity, as have generations of Americans before us. Thank you. May God bless you and may God bless America.

  As the Vice-President, now Acting-President, stepped aside, an African-American woman in what looked to be her mid-fifties and dressed in a military uniform, began to speak. Mike was unable to focus as he digested what had just been announced. By invoking the 25th, the president had made history, but it also made Mike understand that the severity of this flu, this Tilian Virus, must be greater than even the news was letting on. And why was the Surgeon General briefing the country and not the Secretary of Health and Human Services? Was it to put a military face to the situation, to show the government was still in control? Or was the Secretary unable to brief? As the questions multiplied in his head, Mike caught snippets of the briefing.

  Apparently, the virus had only targeted those with blood type O, both positive and negative. Due to a car accident in his youth, which required a transfusion, Mike knew he had A-positive blood type. Relief quickly spread over him as it seemed, at least according to the Surgeon General, that he was immune to the virus.

  The first sign of infection was the typical elevated fever, followed by nausea. More advanced cases were displaying hemorrhaging from the ears and nose, hives over the body, and ruptured blood vessels in the eyes. The Surgeon General stressed repeatedly that there were no reported cases of fatalities, and there was no indication of permanent damage once the flu ran its course.

  The briefing continued for another thirty minutes before returning to the local affiliates. The remaining time provided tips to prevent a spread (washing hands frequently, and the like), as well as phone numbers to call in case of a possible infection.

  As the morning wore on, the class continued to watch the news. Little information had changed since the White House briefing three hours ago. When the students returned to the cafeteria to eat lunch, Mike tried reaching his aunt. After several attempts resulted in no response, he headed in to join the students and perhaps grab something to eat. The cafeteria was subdued as the students quietly ate pork riblets or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Mike chose one of the latter and sat at a table with the other faculty members that made it in to work. The conversation among them was no different than the students’ own discussions.

  Lost in thought, Mike did not hear at first when one of the other second year teachers asked him if he had been able to reach his family. He told her what he had learned that morning about his mother, brother and niece. Using his Blackberry, he then checked to see that his afternoon flight was still scheduled. With the flight confirmed and lunch concluded, Mike walked back to his class with the students. Michelle Lafkin passed him in the hall and asked if she could spend the rest of the day in his room. Mike said it would be fine, but told her to make sure her other teacher knew she was switching rooms.

  Once again in the room, the class returned to its rapturous watching of the local news. Michelle came into the room and handed her history teacher a note. She then took a seat with her friends, Derrick Chancer and Jenni Calente. Before her mom left, forcing her father to downsize the family home, Michelle had been Jenni’s neighbor. Though Jenni was a year ahead, the two had remained friends through middle school and into high school.

  Jenni, one of the school’s star soccer players, came from a middle class family. Her father worked in the city at a mortgage company and her mother worked part time as a teacher’s aide at the elementary school. It was not a shock that her delicate features had attracted the attention of Derrick at the beginning of their freshman year. The two quickly paired off and had been dating ever since. Not wanting to be separated by graduation, both had applied and been accepted to the University of Tennessee at Knoxville. Jenni hoped to pursue a career in nursing, while Derrick was hoping his football scholarship would lead to a chance in the NFL.

  As time passed, the reports coming in from around the world increased the number of infected significantly. Twenty-three percent became twenty-eight, which was soon replaced with thirty-two. By 2:00 PM, the world’s leading health experts placed the number at forty-three percent of the world’s population with confirmed cases of the Tilian Virus. As far they could tell every country across the globe had been exposed. There was still no clear consensus as to how the virus had spread so quickly. The talking heads on the news speculated on everything from global warming to solar flares and, of course, terrorism. These speculations were always followed with: There is no reason to suspect a terrorist plot.

  Then why say it? Mike thought angrily. He could see how just the mention of terrorism had magnified the fear in the room. Mike knew that throughout history fear-mongers could topple a government just as easily as a war. It was only when cooler heads prevailed that stability was maintained. All too often, though, those cooler heads were shouted down, or in more severe cases removed from the rest of the body. As he was about to get up to turn the television off, the anchor interrupted the pundits and turned the broadcast over to a reporter at the hospital.

  With umbrella in hand, the reporter was talking about some type of disturbance at the hospital. In all the chaos of the day, Mike had failed to notice the rain outside his classroom windows. As he peered out a wet window, he saw the tell-tale flashing blue lights of the sheriff’s patrol car parked in front of the building. Upon closer inspection, Mike counted two additional patrol cars. Before the question even formed in his head, there was a knock on the classroom door. As he approached, Mike could see through the small window that Valerie Mulligan, the assistant principal, waited on the other side.

  Closing the door behind him, Mike found that she was not alone—the sheriff and one of his deputies were with her as well.

  “Hey, Mike,” her soft voice cracked. Only in her third year as AP, she had already won over the students with her dry wit and enthusiasm, neither of which she expressed now.

  Anxiously looking from her to the officers, he said, “Val, what’s wrong?”

  Bo Cartwright, the sheriff of the county for the past thirty-five years, answered for her.

  “We just received word from the governor that he has issued a lockdown. We’re gonna have to ask that you and your students stay in the school until it has been lifted.”

  “A lockdown? I don’t und–I mean, for what? What’s happened?”

  “We’re not quite sure, son. Details are pretty sketchy right now. Apparently, some of the people that are sick…well, they’re actin’ strangely,” the graying man replied.

  “Strangely?” repeated Mike. “What does that mean?”

  Fumbling with the broad-brimmed sheriff’s hat he held in both hands, Bo Cartwright was struggling for words. Mike had only known the man two years, but he was a community favorite. Seeming to know the names of each citizen in the small rural county, Sheriff Cartwright was famous for greeting everyone and making time to talk. Now, incredibly, it seemed words failed him.

  “Sheriff, what do you mean, strangely?” Mike asked again, the frayed nerves sharpening his tone more than he intended.

  “Violently.”

  Mike’s head pulled back slightly at the utterance. It was then that his eyes were drawn down to the white shirt the sheriff wore. The left sleeve, pristinely clean down to the elbow was splattered with blood from elbow to wrist.

  The sheriff, seeing the understanding in Mike’s face, continued. “We got a call about a domestic disturbance down at the Lafkin place. When we got there…it was like something out of a movie. I mean there was blood everywhere. We found Jerry Lafkin in one of the back rooms. He was standing over his mother’s body, and he was covered in...” he paused. “It looked like she’d been torn apart by an animal. When he saw us, he lunged at me and my deputy. He wasn’t himself. His eyes were…they were like a wolf going in for the kill. It took five shots to bring him down. We’ve gotten almost a dozen other calls since then.”

  The sheriff was clearly rattled as he conclu
ded. His tone made him sound as if he were in a confessional, regret and pain dripping on every word. Mike’s head spun with the news, then he quickly understood why the sheriff had told him of the incident.

  “Michelle...his daughter, she’s in my room,” his voice hoarse and small.

  Through muffled tears, Valerie Mulligan, spoke. “We have the counselor waiting for her in guidance. Can you ask her to step out here with us?”

  With a paralyzing numbness, Mike had to force his body to turn and open the door. Each movement seemed distant from him. The body was his, but he felt disconnected from it. Each step inside the room was agony, knowing that in moments a young girl’s life would be shattered.

  While the world outside came crashing down, nothing had changed inside the room. The students still were glued to the television. The same reporter was still talking about the unknown disturbance within the hospital, though now his voice was tinged with panic. The camera panned across to the front doors as dozens, maybe hundreds, of people came running out, voices pitched in frantic screams. Students gasped as they watched people trampled in the frenzy. The camera began to falter, and Mike could hear the reporter’s voice, “Keep filming! Keep filming!” The camera once again focused on the reporter, a human mass of movement behind him. His mouth moved, but his words were drowned out by the screams. As he tried to shout over the din, a stumbling figure broke away from the sea of bodies in the foreground. As it drew nearer to the camera, Mike could make out the distinct shape of a red hospital gown haphazardly tied around the man’s body.

  Horrified, Mike realized that, like the sheriff’s shirt, the gown had not always been red. He knew he should turn off the television, that these images were only going to get worse. But his body no longer responded.

  Within seconds, the figure had closed the distance. The cameraman screamed out a warning, but it was too late. The gowned man leapt at the reporter, his face a mess of hives and gore. They watched in horrified silence as the attacker bit the man’s throat, and he screamed in pain. Blood sprayed onto the glass lens of the camera. Before the screen went black, Mike saw the eyes of the gowned man. They were like a wolf’s eyes…going in for the kill.

  Chapter Four

  With frightening familiarity, Mike placed the magazines into his custom leg harnesses. The years had proven him to be rather adept with firearms, though prior to the outbreak he had never even held a gun. The two semi-automatic Glock 17Cs strapped to him now were quite different than Sheriff Cartwright’s service revolver. His mind sometimes drifted back to that moment when he first felt the cold steel in his hands, the stiffness of the trigger, the smell of the gun powder that stung his nose after he fired.

  The man that stared back at him from the mirror was almost unrecognizable. His face was leaner, harder, than it had once been. The brown hair he once kept neatly trimmed now reached well past his ears. Haircuts just didn’t seem as important in this new world. He kept his face clean-shaven though, having learned quickly that an itching beard was more aggravating than shaving with soap. The clothes he wore, black military-issue shirt and pants, fit him well. While he failed to see the importance of regular haircuts, Mike fully understood the necessity of staying in peak physical form. Where once it was a point of vanity, his athletic build was now maintained for survival.

  With a knock, Paul ducked into the cabin. He was outfitted in a similar fashion as Mike Allard. “Ready, chief?” he asked.

  “You’re not going,” Mike said flatly, for what felt like the hundredth time in the last two days. It had been a hotly debated point of contention between the two. With Mike heading the search team, he had instructed Paul to remain behind to keep the camp secure. Paul had strongly, and loudly, disagreed.

  “Like hell I’m not. Our best security went out with Michelle and the others. The camp can’t afford to have you run off to play hero without protection,” the ranger replied. “And don’t give me that bullshit that the guys going with you are protection. You and I both know they’re green. They haven’t seen action beyond securing the camp.”

  Mike knew he was right, though he hated to admit it. With the lieutenant and his men gone, what security force remained was compromised of refugees that, while skilled with firearms, had not seen the same kind of fighting that seasoned the camp’s main security.

  “I need someone to run the camp,” Mike said, quickly turning to his second reason for Paul to stay behind.

  “I thought that was Derrick’s job.”

  After the loss of Jenni, Mike and his second in command had likewise disagreed with Derrick’s ability to perform his duties. Paul had seen the toll the loss had taken on the boy just as Mike had. Stubbornly, and perhaps incorrectly, Mike refused to ask him to step down. In truth, his own doubts about Derrick had played a part in his telling Paul to stay behind.

  Mike knew Paul well enough to understand that once the ranger’s mind was set on a course of action it would take a herculean effort to deter him. In many ways, he knew that the ongoing debate of the last two days was fruitless and that Paul would win out in the end. Mike gave him credit though; Paul had never debated him on the point in public. He believed too strongly in the chain of command to question Mike’s leadership where other ears could be listening. With a nod of consent, the two made their way to the center of camp and joined the four others that waited to begin the journey.

  The security and foraging teams had begun their own journey eleven days earlier. They were now four days overdue from their scheduled return. The buzz of worry swept through the camp quickly. Mike did his best to avert the obvious tension that was building among the refugees. But, like dust on the wind, the anxiety had spread beyond the point of containment. Two days ago he addressed the camp, informing them of his plans to lead a search party. The intervening time was spent gathering food, water, and medical supplies. Mike had been tempted to have the doctor join them in case one of the missing was injured, but had quickly rejected the idea. The doctor’s lack of fitness would only serve as a hindrance, and his skills might be needed in the camp.

  Following the same trail the others had used, it would take two days to get off the mountain, and, if they could find a working vehicle, a third to reach their destination. It was just after dawn as the group set out. With somber goodwill, several of the refugees wished the party safety on their journey. Mike had hoped that Derrick would see them off, but as his eyes drifted to the isolated tent at the other end of the camp he knew those hopes were empty.

  The trails leading down the mountain had been cleared by the lieutenant’s scouts, thus making the journey for his team less perilous. By the time they stopped for lunch, he was pleased to see that they had covered more ground than expected. As with the first hours of the hike, the group remained in relative silence as they ate. He knew the thoughts of his companions without asking, for Mike’s mind raced with the same concerns. The team that the lieutenant and Michelle had led totaled thirteen refugees, eight of which were skilled fighters. What could they have encountered to delay such a large group?

  Andrew Weyland, the youngest of his team at eighteen years old, was the first to notice the dark storm clouds pushing in from the West. Not wanting to squander the ground they had gained, Mike ordered the party to pack up and resume the hike. They managed to buy four more hours before the first of the rain began to sting their faces. Though the trail rapidly began to turn to mud, they trudged on until the sucking at their boots forced them to make camp for the night. With tents pitched and a low fire burning, Mike and his men ate the chicken and rice one of the women from the camp had packed for them. After the meal and the cooking gear was cleaned and packed away, Paul and Andrew opted to take first watch. Sleep was elusive as Mike listened to the two outside his tent.

  “What do you think happened to them?” Andrew questioned.

  “Don’t know, kid,” was Paul gruff reply. He did not have the answer and any speculation would just fuel the teen’s anxiety.

  Andrew and his mot
her had been some of the first people Mike and the survivors of the school had met on the road. Just twelve at the time of the outbreak, the boy had grown up in a world that, to him, had now become the standard. A lanky youth with dark blonde hair and green eyes, his family had been farmers two counties over from the school. The virus had taken his father and three siblings, leaving Andrew and his mother, Sarah, to survive the aftermath on their own. Understandably, he had been withdrawn and nearly mute from the shock of what he had witnessed when Mike and the others found them stranded together on the road. Lost in the world, Sarah eagerly accepted the help of the strangers, and she and her son had joined them.

  When their second camp was overrun by the infected, Andrew’s mother stumbled as she and her son attempted to flee with the others. Clubbing the infected that immediately pounced on her, Andrew was able to drag her to safety. Unfortunately, in the attack, Sarah had been bitten by one of the Tils that swarmed through the campsite. Andrew was forced to watch in horror as the virus took hold of his mother and she began the “change.” When her predatory eyes fell on the boy before her—prey now and no longer a son—he scrambled backwards on the ground with tearful screaming. Her mouth curled into a vicious snarl as she advanced on the stricken child. As he stumbled in a panicked escape, his hand brushed across the gun of a fallen refugee. His arms shook as he pointed the weapon and fired, his mother falling dead at his feet as sobs ripped from his body. It was three days later, in a make-shift camp that the escaped refugees had constructed, before Andrew spoke of the incident. His voice through the retelling was hollow and empty.

  Mike had lost six people the night the camp was attacked. Andrew, like so many others, had become an orphan to the Tilian Virus. Refusing to let his mind create scenarios of a similar fate befalling Michelle and the others, he forced his attention back to the present.