His irritation with the whole thing made him break things off with his latest conquest, a young woman named Bethany, too early. He’d really found her attractive and enjoyed getting her to give in to his demands, but her name had reminded him to much of that stupid bitch at work.
The worst part was that he’d have to find a different support group to find his next victim. It was a ploy he’d perfected over time, and nearly always yielded results. He’d find local support groups for various issues people were dealing with - not the people with the actual issues, but those who were affected by others who had the issues (like he’d spend his time helping people deal with their issues!).
Previously he’d gone to support groups for the newly widowed, and made up sob stories about having lost his wife ‘Sarah’, earning sympathy and kind words. Then he’d listen to each attractive woman’s story, making mental notes of their lost partners traits, characteristics, and habits. Later, he’d suggest coffee or a late night snack to ‘talk over their feelings.’ There, he’d subtly slide in one, maybe two, little things that were sure to remind them of their loved one. Eventually, their guard would come down, and then he’d use the ‘I’m just so glad I found someone who understands what I’m going through’ line. After that, things usually got easy. Soon enough, they’d be in his bed.
Lately, he’d moved on to support groups for people dealing with a loved one who had cancer. He’d found it a bit more challenging, since the other person wasn’t necessarily gone yet, but it had still resulted in success on a couple of occasions. For this effort, his ‘Sarah’ had passed away recently from breast cancer. He’d even purchased one of those stupid pink ribbon magnets for his car.
The first was a middle-aged woman named Amelia, who’d recently lost her mother to breast cancer. He’d found her too easy and too boring.
The second was Bethany, whose father had been diagnosed with lung cancer. She clearly had issues with the relationship she had with her father, which gave Michael a path towards his goal of having her fall for him. Apparently the man had never been one to show her affection, let alone love. When his diagnosis came, Bethany was sure he was going to die without ever bridging the gap that had grown between them.
But then, surprisingly, he had been cured by some new miracle drug. Bethany had told him that shortly after receiving a clean bill of health, her father had gotten sick, but that was the only type of discomfort that could even be remotely associated with the treatment.
So happy with her father’s diagnosis, Bethany had finally agreed to go out with Michael. True to form, Michael had made sure her happy feelings led to drinks, which led to his bed.
Ending things with her was a rash decision, but between the stupid HR bullshit he had to deal with and the flu he’d come down with, he didn’t have the time or energy to keep up his charade.
After coldly telling her to go to hell and never call him again, he’d fallen into his bed and slept for eleven hours. He’d woken up in a pool of sweat. Rising from his bed, he made his way to the bathroom, where he let what had to be everything in his bowels out in one giant dump. He’d been wrong, he found out later that day, when he’d had to return for another massive bowel movement, which left his entire body weak and his abdominal muscles sore.
The next five days were more of the same, with him alternating between burning up and freezing. Clothes and covers were put on, then taken off.Water was consumed, but not much else, other than a few slices of bread, the only thing he thought he could keep down.
It all passed last night, apparently, because today he felt great. He’d practically jumped out of bed this morning, filled with an energy he hadn’t felt in what seemed like a month. He brushed his teeth for the first time in several days, spending extra time in an effort to make up for the neglect. After that he’d showered, shaved, and used gel in his hair to make it look like the neat mess he preferred.
Now, after a quick stop at the corner taco shop for a bite to eat, he was headed to his favorite bar near the beach. With any luck, he’d find a woman there that he could hit on.
Entering the place, he stopped at the bar and got himself a Bud Light before heading over and grabbing a stool at one of the empty bar-height tables against the wall, positioning himself so that he could see all the ‘talent’ that entered the bar.
“Excuse me.” A dark haired man with short hair, possibly a military cut, stood nearby. “Don’t I know you?”
Shaking his head, Michael Worthington didn’t even bother to look at the man. ‘Fucking military. They think they’re so special, just because they wear a uniform,’ he thought, barely concealing his disdain. “Nah, man, I don’t know you.”
“Yeah, I think I do know you.” The man stepped closer, looking intently at Michael.
Unimpressed, Michael looked the man up and down. Medium height, medium build, nothing too impressive, even in his tank top. The guy had a stupid tattoo, too. Some bird holding a pitchfork or something. Idiot. “No, you don’t.”
“Are you sure? It seems like I saw you at my friend Sarah’s house last month.”
“Dude, I don’t even know a Sarah, OK. Now fuck off.” Taking a swig of beer, he swiveled his chair, turning his back on the guy.
His mistake and the cleverly laid trap dawned on him in the split second before two hands slammed into the side of his head, cupping over his ears and rupturing his eardrums. Michael Worthington fell out of his chair, screaming, his ears ringing loudly as he writhed on the ground, holding his head.
The man stood over him, waiting to see if he’d get up, but knowing he wouldn’t. “That’s for Bethany, you fuck.”
Michael rolled over onto his stomach, still holding his head in his hands, still screaming, as he tried to control the pain in his head. The pressure was too intense. It coursed through his body, filling him with a surge of energy as blood ran out of his ears, through his fingers, and down the sides of his face.
Why was this happening to him?
What had he done to deserve this?
Suddenly, he went still. His hands dropped away from his head, coming to rest on the floor of the bar. By now most of the bar’s patrons had gathered around to see what had happened between the two men. They waited as the man remained there on the floor, breathing deeply, his body expanding and contracting as he did so.
The other man stared down at him. “Don’t ever fuck with Bethany again, you got that?”
A hand shot out, grabbing a nearby barstool, and swinging it behind him, where it collided with the man’s knee with incredible force, tearing every ligament in the knee instantly. Screaming, the man collapsed to the ground, clutching at his knee, his lower leg flopping sideways.
Still holding the barstool in one hand, the former Michael Worthington rose from its kneeling position and, standing full and upright, brought the barstool down in one smooth, fluid motion. The thin cushion of the stool did little to soften the blow as the edge of the barstool smashed into the man’s skull, breaking it. Blood gushed out of the wound as the man’s body convulsed once, then went still. The smell of urine and excrement permeated the air as the life left his body.
The thing the crowd still thought of as a man, but could hardly be considered human, tossed the chair aside and thrust it’s head forward suddenly. Blackish-red liquid shot forth, covering those closest to it. It lunged forward and grabbed a woman in a bikini by the neck. The woman tried to scream as the thing pulled her towards it, but couldn’t draw in oxygen to do so. Tighter the thing gripped her neck, until something popped in her throat and breathing became impossible. It dropped her on the ground, next to the dead man, oblivious as she clawed frantically at her throat, desperately trying to get life-saving air that didn’t come.
The creature screamed, an awful sound that broke people out of their shock. They tried to run, but the entrance was too small for so many to get through in their panic. People fell and were stepped on as others tried to escape.
A man stuck the creature with full force
across the back of the head with a pool stick, breaking it. It staggered forward, before turning towards the man. Desperate, the man held out the broken stick, trying to keep the creature at bay. It lunged at him, grabbing the man’s face in it’s hand and driving him back into the pool table as the man sank the broken pool stick into the thing’s abdomen. Pushing the man back onto the table, the thing lifted the man’s head and slammed it down onto the table over and over, until the man went limp.
Impossibly unaware of the pool stick embedded in its abdomen, it didn’t realize that the other end of the stick had gotten lodged in one of the table’s pockets. Moving to step away from the pool table, the stick’s unbroken end remained in place, while the part lodged inside the creature dragged through its internal organs, ripping and tearing them with its jagged edge.
The creature, only aware that something was keeping it from moving, looked down at the object stuck in its core. It pulled the stick out and tossed it to the ground with a clatter. Turning towards the door where people still struggled to exit, it took half a step before collapsing to the floor, succumbing to its injuries.
The thing that was the asshole known as Michael Worthington died in a heap on the floor of the bar as people still screamed and cried in terror, hurting each other as they tried to save themselves, many of them not realizing it was too late. As they fought and clawed to escape, they further spread the virus, sentencing those around them to a violent death in the near future.
CHAPTER SIX
City Hospital, San Diego, CA
‘Where am I?’ Groggy and thirsty, Amara opened her eyes, seeing only white tiled ceiling above her. Her skin felt like it was crawling, making her anxious, like she needed to move. On top of that, her left arm burned as if it were on fire.
Looking around the room, she saw several bouquets of flowers, accompanied by cards, sitting on the table near the window.
‘I’m in the hospital?’ Looking down at her arm, she saw an IV line inserted in her vein. Following its length, she saw it connected to a saline bag, and under that, a second liquid of some sort, which was being metered out to mix with the saline before entering her bloodstream.
‘How long have I been here?’ She asked herself, looking at the slight wilting that showed on the edges of the flowers.
She wondered if whatever was in that smaller vial was making her feel so anxious. Reaching for the call button, she rang for the nurse.
After a minute, a young Filipino woman entered the room. “Mrs. Dhawan, you’re awake! I’m Michelle, the nurse that’s assisting you this evening. How are you feeling?” Without waiting for a response, she began checking Amara’s vitals, making notes on the chart that was attached to the clipboard she held.
“Terrible. How long have I been here?”
“That’s right, you probably don’t remember. Today is Tuesday. You came to the hospital Saturday.”
“I’ve been here for three days?” Looking around, confused, she couldn’t imagine being away from all of her responsibilities for three days. Work, the home, her husband - “Where’s my husband?”
The nurse set the clipboard back into its box on the end of the bed. “I’m sorry. He’s been here every day, but unfortunately, it appeared that he was coming down with the flu, so we had to ask him to go home. We can’t risk him spreading the flu to other patients in the hospital.”
“I see.” Amara looked around the room for her belongings. She didn’t see them. What was she wearing when she arrived?
“And you, Mrs. Dhawan, how are you feeling? You’re awake for the first time since you initially passed out on Saturday, which is good, but your temperature is right at 102, which is not so good.”
“I feel good, actually. Any chance I can go home? If Ajay isn’t feeling well, I need to take care of him.”
The nurse shook her head, her eyes filled with compassion. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make that decision. That decision will have to come from the doctor.” She looked down at Amara’s left arm. “Plus, we’ll need to see how your arm is doing. It was very red yesterday. Hopefully the antibiotics have helped.”
“Antibiotics?”
“Yes, for the scratches. We put your shoulder back in place, but the scratches appeared to be infected. We assumed that was the cause of your sickness. On that note, what kind of animal attacked you, anyway? Do you remember?”
Amara considered this for a few seconds. Suddenly, the memories came rushing back to her. Raylene, coughing, then attacking her in one swift strike. What had happened after that? She’d dreamed of being helped down the trail, but that memory was distant, somewhere on the far side of a cloud. Her eyes widened. She tried to sit up, but her left arm hurt too much to lift her body weight.
“Oh my God.”
“What is it, dear?”
“It wasn’t an animal! It was my friend!”
The young nurse recoiled in surprise. Lines creased her forehead as she looked at Amara with skepticism. “Your friend? Mrs. Dhawan, are you sure you’re feeling better? Why would your friend attack you?”
“It wasn’t her.”
“I don’t understand. You said it was your friend.”
“It was my friend, but she changed somehow!” Another thought flashed through her mind. “Wait, is Tracy OK?”
“Tell me more about your friend. Was it really a ‘friend’? Do you fear for your safety at home? We have people here that you can talk to….”
“My friend Tracy can explain everything.” Now she did find the strength to sit up. She stared at the nurse, intensity in her eyes. “Is she OK?”
Seeing how important this was to her, the nurse relented. “I don’t know. Why do you think she might not be? Was she with you?”
“Yes, she was there when Raylene hit me!”
Throughout this, Amara’s heart rate had increased dramatically, causing the sensors to begin chirping in warning.
The nurse wanted to ask about this ‘Raylene’, but needed to deescalate the situation first. “Ma’am please. I will access the hospital’s database, but I need you to calm down a bit first, OK?”
Fire shown in Amara’s eyes. She willed herself to take deep breaths, trying to bring her heart rate down. “OK.”
“Thank you.” The nurse stepped to the computer mounted on the desk near the doorway. “Can you tell me her last name?”
Amara thought about this. What was Tracy’s last name? Her memory of Tracy’s face was foggy, her features fuzzy. Her last name. What was it? Jensen? Johnson? Jackson. That was it. “Jackson.”
“Okay. Let me see.” Typing in the computer, she found the record and peered down at the screen, reading the notes. “OK, actually, she was admitted the same day as you. She had a leg injury, and required stitches, as well as hairline fracture on her kneecap. Don’t know why she was admitted. She should have been treated and released.” She clicked the mouse, staring at the screen. “Ahhh…I see. She had a fever, which spiked quickly. Apparently it hit 105, requiring her to be admitted. She was admitted and has been here since. Looks like she’s in...room 415. That’s on this floor, in the other wing.”
The nurse logged off the computer, and turned back to Amara. “Okay, now, your temperature is a bit high, but otherwise you seem to be doing better. Do you have any aches, chills, or soreness in your throat?”
“No, I actually feel pretty good.” She looked down at her heavily bandaged left arm. With some discomfort, she lifted it off the bed. “Except this. It feels like it’s burning.”
The nurse came back to the end of the bed and grabbed the chart, examining the second page. “OK, well, it looks like you’re due to have the dressing changed this evening, so we can have a look and maybe air it out for a bit, see if that helps.” She came around to the side of the bed and began peeling away the bandages with great care. Amara watched as the young woman worked, curious to see what her arm actually looked like. When the final layer was removed, they both gasped.
The long furrows into her arm had blacke
ned, the skin inside the grooves dead. Although her natural skin color was a tanned brown, the redness of the arm was vibrant in the lighting of the room. The grooves in her arm were deep, and now with the skin dead, her blood flow was restricted. The arm appeared to throb as the blood attempted to move through it.
‘What the hell happened to me?’ Amara wondered, tears forming in her eyes. ‘Raylene, what did you do to me?’ She thought, blinking her eyes rapidly to hold back the tears.
At that moment, an alarm went off. A voice came over the loudspeaker. “Code blue, room 415. Code blue, room 415.”
The alarm blared, piercing Amara’s brain. She brought her hands up to cover her ears, uncaring of the pain in her left arm.
The nurse looked at her, surprised. The sound wasn’t that loud. It was loud enough to hear throughout the floor, but not intense enough to warrant such a strong response.
The voice over the loudspeaker returned, this time sounding panicked. “Code grey, room 415!! Code grey, room 415!! We need security now!!” In the background a person could be heard screaming before the line was closed.
‘What is going on?’ The nurse wondered. She looked back at her patient. Mrs. Dhawan had curled her legs up, bringing herself into a fetal position, her hands still covering her ears. “Are you OK, Mrs. Dhawan?” The woman was shaking as she lay there. She convulsed suddenly, throwing herself off of the bed, falling onto the floor on the opposite side from where she stood. Shocked, she leaned forward, trying to see her patient on the floor. “Mrs. Dhawan?”
An animalistic growl came from the other side of the bed, causing her to step back. The growling increased, growing in intensity, climbing towards a crescendo. The nurse felt the surface of the closet door against her back. She stood there, frozen in fear.
Surviving Rage | Book 1 Page 6
