Rise of the Plague (Book 1): Endemic

by Jeannie Rae

  James turned back and removed the flash drive from his laptop that Mara had brought into his office, concealed within a cork, on a key chain. It contained all of the information that Edward had sent her. Replacing the cap, it once again looked like an ordinary cork that one would think was from a memorable moment of Mara’s past, and handed it back to her.

  “Mara, this is damage control. Our first priority is to get a tight lid on this, so that it doesn't leak, and Angora is not implicated. At this point, we need the core task force to get the patients back here, with as little attention being drawn as possible. Then, we'll take it from there. In the meantime, I suggest you take the remaining serum and begin working on it to create the retro-virus outlined in the email, in case it has the same effects on humans as it did on the test subjects in the video you showed me. If that's the case, at the end of the day, we may have more than just four bodies on our hands.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Eight core Angora security guards stood in circle formation in the somewhat-full parking structure. All had their phones out and were reviewing the information that Randy had sent them on the way to the garage.

  “Alright we have our orders. We need to locate these people now, before they get too sick. We need them all back here, regardless, but I want them back alive,” Randy's voice was just above a whisper, causing not so much as an echo throughout the garage. “We’re going use the radio app in our phones, limited chatter and speak in code.”

  Nods and looks were exchanged among the men as Randy began rifling through the paperwork in his hands.

  “Boots & Walker, you've got McFarland. Rhino & Junior, you take Swick. Buzz, Doyle take Harper. Shotgun, we'll get Bishop. Be stealth gentlemen, in and out. Remain unseen. Let's mount up.”

  Each pair of men headed off to separate, identical black, Ford Expeditions. Randy and Shotgun slipped into their vehicle and were the first to leave the garage. Upon exiting the structure they passed the garage security station at the exit, Shotgun offering a nod at the young man in the booth. A newbie, just hired a few weeks ago. Shotgun couldn't remember his name, meaning that he was probably working out fine. After departing the garage, the road snaked three quarters of a mile down to the gate.

  Angora looked as if it were a modern day castle. The ultramodern lobby is situated on the first floor of the building, providing futuristic kiosks for visitors and patients and an array of art sculptures and furniture that often times proved perplexing to newcomers. A basement exploratory laboratory is below the first floor, for James’ pet projects, that range from animal parasites to organic food. Angora is a towering structure stands twelve floors high. Its cobalt blue, stucco exterior and mirrored windows can be seen for miles and is a local magnet for brilliant minds in the area. The parking garage stands just as high and has the same stucco appearance as the laboratory. A catwalk on the second floor of the main building marries the parking structure serving as easy access to the garage. A lush green lawn extends out nearly a half mile in front of the building, with perfectly manicured shrubs strategically located before the main entrance. Seven towering shade trees are scattered across the sprawling grass area. A few employees could be spotted under the shade trees and on park benches chatting with each other and using their cell phones in the fading light of the early-evening.

  Surrounding the entire property is a twelve-foot high concrete wall exhibiting the same stucco look as the exterior of the building and garage. Following the street within the walls, Shotgun and Randy sped past the lawn area and were approaching the exit. A squared booth situated twenty-five feet from two gigantic gate doors, contains one Angora security guard. The steel doors stand twelve feet high and fifteen feet across each. They can only be opened from a security officer within the perimeter of Angora, inside the gate control booth.

  Shotgun slowed the vehicle to a stop, pulling out his ID badge and handing it to the man in the security booth. The guard examined the badge, and then glanced behind the vehicle. Shotgun looked into his side mirror, seeing headlights of three identical vehicles pulling up behind him.

  “Something going on Shotgun? Oh, hey Boss,” the guard in the booth said, craning his neck to see the identity of the passenger as he returned the ID badge.

  “Just a little training exercise, Brody, nothing too exciting,” Shotgun rolled his eyes appearing to be in boredom. Glancing at Randy, he flashed a sly grin.

  “Uh, yeah, have fun with that. I'll keep the gate open for all four of your trucks to get through.”

  “Thanks Bro, we'll probably be back before your shift even ends,” Shotgun said, rolling up the window and driving out the gates. The other vehicles followed, parting ways at the end of the block.

  After shedding himself from his rut of self-pity, Dave swung open the door to the Crazy Horse Saloon and sauntered inside. A moderate level of foolishness at how dejected he had been at the park washed over him. Thankful that he had been alone in the park, Dave would have consequentially been humiliated had he verbalized those thoughts to anyone.

  “Hey Dave. Glad to see you made it back without melting. I guess the devil is going to stay home today… The news is saying it’s about four degrees hotter than hell in Port Steward,” Garrison teased from behind the bar, filling a glass with water. “Have some water, cool off.”

  Dave ginned at his pal, taking a seat on the least worn barstool at the counter. The bar opened for business hours ago, but Dave was Garrison’s only patron. This place had a bleak element to it by the light of day, dingy and dated. The unfinished-wood floor had been swept and rickety chairs were down and around the tables.

  Since taking over this bar from his father, Garrison hadn’t sunk a penny into it. No upgrades and minimal repairs had been done by Garrison himself, even the bar counter—that everyone sees and feels, had lost all of its coating. The place had a gloomy essence to it during the day, almost spooky. There was something alluring about the dim evening lighting, neon signs in the window and the sound of music that just breathed life into this place at night.

  Dave glanced up at the corner mounted, box-television broadcasting the news. The weather had just wrapped up, and then the anchor, Henry Lewis, began reporting about a flu shot clinic at the local lab. Angora. Dave knew the place. A towering building, located up by the bottleneck, near the interstate, its high walls made it seem conspicuously secretive. Angora had been a topic in the news almost daily over the past few weeks, reporting that their stocks had been extremely volatile lately. Down, then up, then down even further—who cares? On second thought, Dave supposed that many of the townspeople cared. Angora meant big business in this town, bringing in revenue and keeping quite a few locals employed. With the way that the economy has been lately, it’s no surprise that that even a big place like that would be impacted. Commercials about their advanced research and highly trained scientists curing diseases, and combating neurological disorders were so common that on some nights, bar goers would start their own drinking game centered around a the words Angora or future.

  “Maybe we should head down and get our flu shots, they’re free,” Garrison said, wiping down the bar.

  “That place is too institutional for me. Besides, it wrapped up a bit ago,” Dave said with a shrug, nodding at the television. “Thanks for the H2O, just what I needed. I’m going to head up and catch a snooze before my shift.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tormented by the punishing, pulsating in her head, Roxy hoped to fall asleep, so that she may awaken felling at least a little better. For some reason, her hearing had been hypersensitive today, which she attributed to the headache and possibly even the side effects of her flu shot. She even considered snatching Kate’s earmuffs to drown out some of the noise, but her body ached and she didn’t want to move if she didn’t have to. Sweat accumulated in on her face and neck, although her body felt relatively cold. The medicine she’d taken for the flu symptoms simply couldn’t relieve her fast enough.

  Today had been the first time
she’d been given a flu shot, and now, she was certain that it would be the last time she would receive one. Roxy has rarely been sick. While being a vegetarian has its benefits and drawbacks, it has taught her the importance of a balanced diet. The few occasions that she has been ill, the durations have been brief.

  Austin, her boss at the Scuba Cabana, remained adamant that she attend the clinic at Angora. Running a skeleton crew for years, he ostracized employees that would call in sick. The one and only time Roxy had been unable to go into work was last fall, while on-call, she had come down with a nasty bug and could not make it in for a last minute dive with vacationers. Austin had about lost his mind on the phone with her, threatening to terminate her, or docking her pay—all hollow threats. When Angora began running announcements about a free flu shot clinic, Austin made the appointment for Roxy, himself, so as to not have a repeat of last year.

  Her cell alerted and hummed across the coffee table, which sounded as if it were at a decibel rivaling a siren from a fire truck. She immediately seized the phone before it could sound a second time and checked it. A bubble showed a text message from her dad. In reality, this meant that Kate had sent her a text, through Dad’s phone.

  Joe never sends text messages. He prefers to make calls instead. That way, there are no misunderstandings and no way to simply say, I didn’t see your message. He’s old school like that.

  Roxy read Kate’s message:

  Food waz gr8! @ the carnival, home in couple hourz.

  Love ya sis! (:

  A smile snuck across Roxy’s face when she read the message. She felt somewhat relieved that she hadn’t changed her mind and decided to go with them. Her under-the-weather feeling could have left the entire evening in ruins. She typed a simple response to Kate and sent it, then set the phone on the table and shifted her position on the couch to get comfortable. Closing her eyes, Roxy gently stroked Gypsy’s head as she drifted off to sleep.

  Kate strolled through the bustling carnival with her dad, tossing her cotton candy wrapper in a marked trash receptacle. After a few unsuccessful games of Hot Shot and Ring Toss, while eating their corn dogs, they were gradually making their way toward the Ferris Wheel. The crowd of people near the midway had nearly disbursed, and a much smaller group assembled at the emergency services booth near the edge of the carnival.

  As Joe and Kate stepped through the roped-off line area for the Ferris Wheel, the conductor put his hand up, as if to say stop. Roping off the beginning of the line just in front of Kate, he tugged on a white lever from behind his control podium. The colossal wheel began to rotate. Kate turned back, hearing screams of exhilaration emanating from the Zipper and the roller coaster. She longed to be with friends at a place like this, but her dad would never understand. Maybe next year, until then, I’m going to make the best of it and we’ll have fun tonight.

  “Can we go on the Zipper or The Snake Pit next?” She pleaded, slipping both hands into the pockets of her jeans.

  “Yep, if you won’t be embarrassed by my screaming,” Joe grinned.

  The wheel slowed to a stop, when the noodle of a conductor began offloading riders from the rusty, blue cart at the bottom. Unclipping the rope, the unusually tall, thin man ushered Kate and Joe into the steel cart. Within a few moments, their cart began to rise skyward.

  “Hey look Kate, there are a couple more people in line now. Maybe we’re starting a trend,” he nudged her in the shoulder.

  “Dad, really,” sarcasm seemed to exude from her pores as she shot over a glare.

  She viewed the small line of five people waiting behind the rope for their turn to board the mammoth wheel. The view of the carnival and the town from only the fourth cart from the ground glimmered in spectacular fashion. The gleaming lights of Port Steward mixed with head and tail lights from passing vehicles, offered a moment of serenity at twilight. The air felt clearer the higher the cart rose into the sky, and the hum of the carnival became silenced as their cart distanced itself from the world below.

  They were the third cart from the top when Joe noticed a disruption across the carnival. A fight or similar disturbance looked to be out of control in the distance.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Randy sat mutedly, mapping out the route to the unusually named road that their target resided upon, while Shotgun negotiated the road. There weren’t many roads that Shotgun didn’t know about, but Port Steward had its share of cul-de-sacs and tiny roads that didn’t touch any of the main streets. Shotgun had been born in The Port. He has shared quite a few stories about this little place with the core over the years. Randy, originally from a metropolitan area of California, knew this town fairly well, but has only resided in Port Steward for about two and a half years, leaving many of small roads untraveled by him.

  “It looks like Bishop's house isn't far from Saddle Brook Park, that's about fifteen minutes away,” Randy announced from the passenger seat of the SUV.

  “Be there in ten, Boss,” Shotgun confirmed, his strong hands gripping the steering wheel. Shotgun has a beefy-body with a golden glow, a chiseled face, with no facial hair, and a blonde flat top spiked up with gel.

  Randy works out with his team every morning, Monday through Friday. He likes to keep them strong. Showing solid judgment and leadership skills early on, made Shotgun the obvious choice as the core’s second in command. While following orders is what the core does best, Shotgun occasionally allows his conscience filter his decisions. In many cases, Randy tells Shotgun whatever is needed to get him to do what needs to be done. When the occasion calls for it, Randy will omit or even fabricate the information he gives Shotgun, in an effort to get him to do whatever is necessary to carry out their orders. On rare occasions, like the one earlier today, Randy had been given an assignment by James that could not involve Shotgun. It had been a slippery assignment in which they needed to extract information, collect data and see to it that the target would no longer be a problem. Due to the time constraints and strict parameters assigned by James, there had been no chance at easing the situation on Shotgun. Therefore, this morning’s assignment only included Randy, along with Rhino and Junior.

  “So Boss, what kind of illness do you think he has? It really must be bad for it to be fatal,” Shotgun glanced over at Randy.

  “I don't know and don't really care. They're orders, James gives them, and we follow them, period,” Randy said as he kept his eyes on the road ahead, watching the light fading from the sky.

  Randy knew that the other members of the core commonly spent time with one another outside of work, at barbeques, pubs and ball games. They were friends. As the leader of this unit, of these men, Randy knew that his place could not at their side as a friend—it had to be that of a commanding officer. While some of the other members of the core may be friendly and jokesters with one another, it’s all about business with him.

  “Your right,” Shotgun nodded.

  The two men sat in silence the rest of the way to Bishop's house. They arrived at the yellow and white house in ten minutes as Shotgun had promised. The night sky bestowed darkness upon The Port with the first stars glimmering from above. They parked on the street in front of the house, just behind a gold sedan. The house appeared to be only a few years old and fairly ordinary, by Randy’s standards. It reminded him of the house that he grew up in. There were leafy shrubs in the front yard with a rose garden lined against the front of the house beneath an expansive bay window. A black Scion was parked in the driveway, and a glow could be spotted through the front window of the otherwise darkened house.

  As they marched the pathway up to the front door, a few people were seen loitering on the lawn of the house on the left, drinking from red disposable cups. Music from a Mariachi band blared so loud that Randy could feel the vibrations pulsing through his body as they neared the house.

  Approaching the porch, Randy glanced in the window and could see a glow flickering from a candle on the coffee table in the living room. The aroma of a freshly cooked meal perm
eated through the open window, but nothing could be heard. Not the sounds of conversation, nor plates or silverware clanking, only an eerie quiet. Shotgun pressed the doorbell and stood back from the door. The bell sounded, but then silence. The men looked at each other guardedly.

  Randy knocked on the door, his knock—loud and swift.

  KNOCK! KNOCK!

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  No answer. Randy shrugged, palming the door knob, he rotated it, finding it unlocked. With caution, he pressed open the door, nodding at Shotgun, before entering the Bishop home.

  The front door opened up into the dimly lit living room, the floor sporting a golden-brown clay tile. The home shimmered by the light of the candle, displaying two dark brown, plush couches. A cherry wood coffee table served as a focal point between the sofas with an ivory candle centered atop. Wax drizzles spilled from the candle onto the table, creating a sizable wax pool that swallowed the base of the candle. With no sign of the Bishops in this room, the men pressed on.

  On the left, a stair case that led to the pitch-black second floor, and straight ahead—the entrance to the kitchen, the only room in the house with a light on—and the light glowed dim at best. No door on the entrance to the kitchen, instead shutters were hung, giving off the feeling of Wild West saloon. Progressing quietly toward the kitchen area, Randy pressed one of the shutters open. To the right, stood a dining room table with four chairs and place settings. Casserole dishes of mashed potatoes and stuffing, a silver platter with a roast, and a glass bowl of tossed salad, were laid out upon the table. Steam still drifted off of the roast. Randy passed through the shutters into the dining area with Shotgun just behind.