Apocalypse Journeys (Book 1): Jacob's Odyssey

by Melrose, Russ

  I settled in at the Josephsons' home because of my close call with the Swimmer. I'd never felt comfortable enough to stay longer than a single night in anyone's home. Call it the Goldilocks' syndrome. Ever since I left my condo apartment, I'd been paranoid of homeowners coming home to discover me napping on their couch or raiding their refrigerator—a ridiculous notion considering the circumstances, but it played around in my mind nonetheless.

  I talked myself into staying a second night at the Josephsons'. Wasn't hard. Better than running into the Swimmer again. Despite my success in my encounter with him, I was nobody's fool. I knew I'd been lucky. If not for the serendipity of finding a random soccer ball lying about, things may not have ended so well for me. I might have been killed and consumed, or worse yet, infected.

  And then there was the savage intensity I felt when I attacked the Swimmer. Just thinking about it unnerved me. I had no idea where it came from. I'd never felt that powerful or determined. Then the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had shown up. I had no control over it, and that bothered me.

  There was always the flip side to consider too. The savage, out-of-control intensity I'd experienced that day had likely saved my life.

  I've never considered myself a physically courageous man. I'm one of those people who navigate their way through life using their analytical wiles. I'm intellectually curious and painstakingly logical. I probably should have been a scientist. Certainly, no one has ever mistaken me for a Viking, and I've always been okay with that. Alex was the only Viking in our family.

  The closest I ever came to Viking-status was running track at Murray High. The 800 meters. Alex talked me into it, told me I'd be less of a dweeb if I ran track. He said it affectionately, of course, and I bought into it. Turns out I had a knack for running track. My best finish was third at a region meet. Not bad. I had good stamina but not much of a finishing kick. Alex joked that my running ability stemmed from my experiences evading bullies growing up. The way I remembered it, I didn't get away all that often.

  I was an easy target. Bullies routinely relieved me of my lunch money, though I never made it easy for them. I had a stubborn streak and would refuse to comply with their demands. My refusal was usually followed by a beating. Then they'd just take the money. But by the time I was ten, the bullying stopped, though it had nothing to do with my stubbornness. It was Alex. Even at a young age, no one wanted to have to deal with Alex. And while I may have been Alex's surrogate parent, he was the one who kept me out of harm's way.

  I couldn't stop thinking about Alex. The pain I felt had dug itself into my being like a thorny burr. I tried rationalizing to ease the pain, but it did little good. I told myself there was nothing I could have done to help him since he'd already been infected. I reminded myself that if I hadn't shot him, he certainly would have killed me and feasted upon my lifeless carcass. He'd also chambered a round with the intent I shoot him before he turned into one of "those things" as he called them. But no matter what I told myself, I couldn't seem to let myself off the hook.

  The Josephsons' expansive downstairs family room had been turned into a game room with two green felt pool tables, a foosball table, and a couple dart boards. I assumed it was for all the kids in the family. Pinewood wainscoting on the walls gave the room a warm, casual feel. A lush coffee-brown carpet covered the basement floor. There was also a comfy couch and several armchairs scattered around the perimeter of the room. In between the armchairs were tables with colorful stained-glass lamps sitting on them. I had been camped out on the couch for the bulk of my visit. It was a long, beige microfiber affair with large tobacco-colored throw pillows. Quite comfortable.

  I headed to Julia Courtney's blog to find out if anyone had information on any infected like the Swimmer. I couldn't find anything. I broke my silence and posted a question. I asked if there had been any reports of any infected who resembled the Swimmer. I left out the nickname I'd given him, but otherwise described him in detail: the ash-white skin, the light tracing of arteries and veins, eyes without the jaundiced appearance, his ability to run full out and climb fences, along with his calm, calculating demeanor. A few posters thought I was trolling.

  One poster gave me a link to a website and said there was a description of a gray that matched my description of the Swimmer. He said the gray was a female and they called her an alpha. The information was in a recording on a conspiracy website. The same site posters had been mentioning for nearly two weeks now. Readers cited it as proof of widespread government collusion in the attacks.

  The site domain was TheBerneProject.com, a one-page website with no web design whatsoever. There was a single paragraph followed by an embedded recording. And below that, a link to the mp3 file of the recording. The author suggested people download a copy so there would always be a record of it.

  The person claimed to have had access to Homeland Security Department computers. Could have been a whistleblower. He said he found the file on the office computer of the Deputy Director, Francis Copeland. Copeland was well known as the architect for the CIA's rendition and interrogation programs in the years following 9/11. He was eventually forced to resign from the CIA under pressure from congress. Later, he landed the Deputy Director position with Homeland Security. His hiring was seen as a concession for serving as the CIA's scapegoat during the backlash period after the programs became public.

  Of course, Francis Copeland wouldn't be defending himself anytime soon. He died in a helicopter crash along with the Director of Homeland Security, Harold Mortenson, the first weekend after the attack.

  According to the whistleblower, the idea for the project had been conceived at a secret meeting in Berne, Switzerland back in the late nineties.

  He said the main folder was encrypted and cleverly hidden deep within an obscure Windows operating system subfolder. He claimed he'd run across the folder by accident and hadn't had the time to fully investigate its contents. But he saw enough to grasp what was going on. The main folder was titled The Berne Project. Inside the main folder were subfolders for Plan, Virus, Research, Background, Media, Projections, and Reorganization. He said he was only able to skim some of the folders.

  I had difficulty reconciling how he was able to get by the encryption. So, I did some checking.

  I went to a WHOIS site to find out what I could. The registrant was hidden. No surprise there. What got my attention was the registration date of the domain. The domain had been registered in mid-January, nearly six months before the virus was released. Whoever registered the domain had to have known about the attack in advance. But why didn't he blow the whistle? Any kind of previous notice would very likely have stopped the attack in its tracks. Why wait till after the virus had been released?

  Despite my skepticism, I listened to the recording in its entirety. I wanted to hear about the alpha that was like the Swimmer. The whistleblower used a voice altering software program to disguise his voice. The program made his voice sound tinny with a shallow echo as if he were talking through a long metallic tube.

  A major component of the plan entailed implicating terrorist organizations as culprits behind the attack. Documents would be planted and discovered after the attacks. The purported terrorist plan would call for the release of the virus through triggers in various luggage compartments. Men of Middle Eastern descent would be arrested in airports with the virus-triggered luggage. It was never made clear whether the scapegoats would be actual terrorists or not. The luggage-triggered idea would divert attention from the real mechanism for the virus' release. According to the whistleblower, that mechanism was the air conditioning ducts in the airports. The plan called for the airport attacks to be facilitated by security personnel that had been put in place years in advance.

  According to information in the virus subfolder, the virus had been in the works off and on for more than three decades. Its initial development began during the Cold War. Studies were focused on Parkinson's disease which impairs neurons in the brain and inhibits dopa
mine production, slows people down, and compromises motor skills and muscles movements. The original goal was to develop a biological weapon that would mimic some of the effects of Parkinson's disease but on a limited-time basis. But somewhere along the way, the goals of the program morphed into something different.

  As the emphasis of the program changed, Rabies and Alzheimer's were included in the studies. While the effects of Parkinson's Disease still served as a model for the prospective virus, a shift toward inhibiting memory and increasing aggressive behavior in subjects began to take root. Not long after the turn of the century, experiments with human subjects began.

  The experiments went on for over ten years with 124 human test subjects. They assigned numbers to the test subjects. Subjects were infected through airborne contact, tactile transference, injections into the bloodstream, contaminated water, and also through bites from those already infected. The incubation period for those infected through airborne contact, tactile transference, and contaminated water were the same, but for those bitten or injected, the incubation period and second stage symptoms were greatly accelerated.

  Subjects were tested for longevity under a variety of conditions. The lifespan of test subjects seemed to be an important aspect of the project. The lifespan of those given no sustenance whatsoever was two to three months. Subjects also exhibited a decided preference for human meat over animal sustenance but would eat either. Younger, healthier subjects lasted longer than their older, more infirm counterparts. The longevity studies served as the basis for computer models which projected survivor rates for the human race, each dependent on a specific set of variables. Worldwide survivor rates ranged from twenty percent to forty percent.

  Three generations of test subjects were rigorously tested under various conditions. Each generation had parroted the previous generation with one glaring exception. This is where the female alpha came in. She was a third-generation subject markedly different than the other subjects. She had retained a semblance of rudimentary cognitive abilities along with some memory—more functional than personal. And rather than deteriorating, her motor skills—running, jumping, etc.—had shown improvement, as did her sensory abilities. While the other test subjects showed enhanced sensory abilities, her sensory aptitude was off the charts. She quickly became the darling of the project.

  The scientists broke protocol and gave her a name—Eve. And Eve wowed them with a display of guile and cunningness. She even exhibited organizational skills where other test subjects were concerned. They classified Eve as an alpha, the only one of her kind. It was clear to the scientists that the virus' effect on Eve had been altered in a significant way. But they were never able to determine why or how. They'd seen no signs of the virus mutating. They explored the possibility that Eve had a partial immunity, but in the end, they never knew for sure.

  As far as the Media folder went, the only thing the whistleblower mentioned was the planners' need to secure internet communications for the purpose of controlling the flow of information during and after the apocalypse period. They secured internet infrastructure in underground bunkers located in remote areas around the country, and they discretely purchased several web hosting companies over the years to help form their own series of interconnected networks.

  The whistleblower concluded with an impassioned plea for human beings to put aside their differences and come together as one family in order for the human race to survive. He claimed it was our only chance to survive. And for the first time, his metallic voice had an edge of emotion in it. Then he quoted from the bible, Romans 12:5: "… so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others." And he followed that with a final, emotional plea, "We all share this planet, and it's time for us to come together as one family, one people."

  Registering the domain six months prior to the attack did lend credence to the recording. My analytical self wanted to fit the square pegs and the round pegs into their corresponding holes to make sense of it all. But it wouldn't make any difference. I needed to focus on the details regarding the alpha. The information on Eve helped me understand the Swimmer's potential abilities better. It also confirmed that the Swimmer wasn't the only alpha out there. There would be others.

  Listening to the description of Eve's cunning and guile and her exceptional sensory abilities and motor skills, I marveled how lucky I'd been. I needed to avoid a second encounter with the Swimmer at all costs.

  I began to wonder if he could track me. I had no idea. It became crystal clear to me I needed to put as much distance between us as was humanly possible.

  I spent the afternoon plotting my itinerary for the following day. The 39th South underpass was ten blocks away. Though I didn't like the idea of traveling ten blocks in a day, I felt an overwhelming need to get as far away from the Swimmer as was possible. Ever since I'd listened to the recording, I felt a lingering uneasiness. Planning the itinerary helped me relax. I checked Google Maps for the most direct route. The thought of being at the underpass tomorrow excited me and helped calm me down.

  Come morning, I would move quickly and carefully. I wouldn't take any chances. Nothing would stop me from getting to the cabin. I realized I was having a conversation with myself, murmuring out loud. It wasn't the first time either. Albeit quietly, I'd been talking to myself more and more as the weeks had passed by.

  I felt antsy and wanted to get going. I thought about leaving right away, get as close to the underpass today as I possibly could, but I knew it was a bad idea. The afternoon temperature would likely be in the upper 90s. I wouldn't make it very far in the heat. I could make better time in the morning when it was cool. I would leave early and give myself a chance to get all the way to the underpass.

  A sudden surge of nervous energy rippled through me. I rolled off the couch and began doing pushups. I'd come a long way with the pushups. In the early days, it was a struggle to get to eighteen. Now I could ease my way through the first fifty or sixty before I felt a strain in my shoulders. These days, I could actually see a subtle definition in my pecs and upper arms that weren't there before. A strange but welcome sight.

  As I hit forty, my mind wandered and I wondered if the house was actually secure. I'd been so out of it after my encounter with the Swimmer, I began to wonder if I'd missed something. I stopped and grabbed the bat.

  I double checked the windows in the basement first. They were all locked except for the escape window above one of the arm chairs in the game room. As a rule, I kept the escape window unlocked to allow for a fast exit, but locking it suddenly seemed like a good idea.

  I headed upstairs and made sure all the windows and doors were locked and secure. Then I went into the garage and checked to see where the switch was to open the garage doors in case I had to use the car. There were two switches next to the door. One of them had to be the garage door switch. The Josephsons had an oversized two-car garage with lots of storage space and shelves. The shelves were filled with dry food storage, maybe six months' worth, along with a half-dozen five-gallon bottles of water—a clean drinking water bonanza. A big freezer between two sections of shelves was stocked with meat.

  The car they'd left behind was an immaculate black Cadillac ATS. Even in the dust-filled garage, the car glistened under a light sheath of dust. I'd found the key fob to the Cadillac in a valet tray in Mr. Josephsons' chest of drawers the first day. I assumed the Cadillac was his, and judging from its spotless condition, he no doubt took great pride in maintaining it.

  I leaned my forehead against the driver side window and peeked through. I could see a clip on the visor which I assumed belonged to the garage door opener. That was a plus. Much better than having to use the switch at the door. I felt confident the battery would start if I needed the car.

  I headed downstairs feeling much better. The house was as secure as it could be. I packed everything in my backpack except for my sunglasses and cap, the bat, the Glock, and my iPad. I wanted to be ready to leave at a moment's notice.


  I wondered what had happened to the Josephsons. For once, the house didn't offer up any clues as to what might have happened. Not a hint. They hadn't taken any food with them, and the house appeared completely undisturbed. There was no sign of cold medicine or Ibuprofen on a nightstand or coffee table. The house was as immaculate as the car. Not a dust mote out of place. It was the kind of home that could make people feel uncomfortable because it was too perfect.

  There was a flawless, spatial symmetry to everything—the furniture, the rugs, the knickknacks, the books, the pictures. Everything fit perfectly, everything precisely in its place. There was a meticulousness about the Josephsons' home that felt cold and emotionally antiseptic. I sensed there would be no room here for any kind of imperfection. At first glance, it seemed like a slice of paradise. Beautiful home, nice things, spectacular views, lots of smiling faces. A part of me wasn't buying it.

  Where had the Josephsons gone? What kept coming back to me was how well prepared they were for an apocalyptic event, yet they seemed to have been swallowed up by it. They could have held on for six months with the stores of food in the garage, but they'd left it behind and disappeared without leaving a trace.

  I wondered what kind of apocalypse the Josephsons were preparing themselves for. A global financial meltdown? A government shutdown? Both seemed plausible. And religious apocalypses certainly had their share of dedicated followers. I'd never given much thought to apocalyptic myth. The rationale for religious apocalypses always seemed to be entangled with a belief in God's retribution for humanity's sinful nature. I just didn't grasp the logic of the concept. But what did I know? Because here it was, a vicious apocalypse unleashed upon a flawed humanity. But God's retribution? Not a chance. Human beings were responsible for this fratricidal insanity, as they always were.