Where is everyone? I scream silently. My eyes catch the room for a moment and it’s dark and empty. Not even Voley is here.
I think for a moment this is all part of the nightmare, but I know it’s not. It’s something else entirely. It’s a waking nightmare. Quiet, he says softly, groping his way inside—I bite again. Just enough to get his hand off my mouth. And I let out the scream of my life. And then, in startled confusion, his hand slams down on my face again. White light, like the snow. I’m stunned. I wait in terror for someone to save me. But maybe he’s already killed everyone else. It’s just me and him on the ship now.
I hear footsteps. Someone has heard. Clint jumps off my bunk and looks to the stairwell. It’s Ernest. What’s going on? he asks, as if he only half heard the terror in my scream. Clint begins to explain, but Ernest has figured it out all on his own by looking at our faces. I’m afraid he’s in on it, and that he’s going to come in now too to finish me off. And together they’re going to steal the last bits of my soul. He walks up, but instead of going to me he grabs Clint and slams him against the wall. Clint goes to his pocket, like he’s after a weapon, but Ernest punches him squarely in the face.
Remember that you did this to yourself, says Ernest, as he stands over top of Clint. Clint is dazed, his hand feeling his crushed jaw. And then I hear another set of footsteps. I look over, through the dim light. Clint must have turned the stove down because it’s very dark, darker than it’s ever been below deck. But I see enough to know who it is.
Russell.
Ernest just walks away. Russell walks straight for Clint, glancing at me just for a moment to confirm his suspicion. He punches Clint in the face, and then again. I see blood running down from Clint’s eye. And then Russell yanks him to his feet and throws him at the stairs. Up! screams Russell. His foot nails into Clint’s back. Clint stumbles up the stairs. The only other thing I hear is a splash. And that’s it. I lie in terror, waiting for someone to come back to me.
Russell returns. I don’t want to talk about it, and he knows this. He just sits by my bed. Finally, after almost an hour, when I think he’s starting to fall asleep, I say something, just so I know he won’t fall asleep on me. Please don’t go there tomorrow, I say. He perks up just for a moment. He wipes the tear off my cheek in time to catch the next one coming from my other eye. It all starts to come out. Then he holds me tight and says nothing. We cling to each other. The last strips of the veneer.
When I wake up in the morning, Russell’s gone. Dusty and Voley are sitting by the side of my bed, both of them asleep. They’ve been keeping me company all night. I sit up, trying to make sense of everything that happened last night, but I’m so exhausted that I can’t. And I don’t want to.
Ernest suddenly appears at the top of the stairs. But something’s wrong because he disappears back up the moment he sees I’m awake and looking at him. I rush up out of bed, because I know he’s avoiding me, and didn’t mean for me to see him. I know what he’s hiding.
I accidentally kick Voley and he yelps as I jolt out of the bed. Sorry, I mutter, and Dusty’s awake. Tanner, he says softly. Tanner, he shouts again. But I’m gone. I run up the stairs and out into the blurry gray of daytime. Freezing razors slice me. The sea is furious. All around us are mountains. They’ve got us trapped in. More land than I’ve seen since I was little. And it’s just what I feared.
The motorboat is already gone, a disappearing dot heading out into the rain sea between two tables of mountain. Russell! I yell. I do it over and over until it hurts to breathe in the cold air. Ernest walks over to me but doesn’t say anything. Russell! I keep crying. He’s too far away to hear me.
The tears all come again. They’re warm at first but the wind strips them of that in an instant. Ernest stands by me for an eternity as I watch the boat disappear altogether. I hear Dusty and Voley coming up the steps behind me. Ernest finally says something.
They’ll be back before lunchtime.
But it’s strange. It’s the most sure thing I’ve ever known all my life. They won’t be back. And I’ll never see him again.
TO BE CONTINUED IN THE SNOW
AUTHOR’S MESSAGE TO THE READER
Thanks for reading The Rain. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it, and that you check out my other stories. It would mean a great deal to me if you reviewed this story on Amazon. Reviews are the most important way indie authors like myself find readers. Sign up for the MAILING LIST to know when the next book comes out.
I write in horror, science-fiction, dystopian, and fantasy genres. Check out my ALL MY BOOKS.
Contact me @ [email protected].
FACEBOOK / TWITTER
* * *
VIRULENT: THE RELEASE, Shelbi Wescott
Dystopia, by Shelbi Wescott
VIRULENT was born from a challenge.
After years of writing literary fiction and querying and meeting rejection after rejection, I hadn’t thought of delving into genre writing. Then I met Kevin. In many ways, Kevin saved me—he was the catalyst for a shift in the way I viewed story and the way I approached fiction.
Kevin was a struggling freshman with an attitude, a potty mouth, and litany of complaints against reading. He arrived to my class five years ago hating every book I tried to pitch him, and he was so vocal about his hatred that I almost gave up hope. We had just finished a post-apocalyptic book that I was certain he would love, but even that one fell short of his lofty expectations.
“That book was so bad,” Kevin told me. “I bet even you could write something better than this.” He meant it as a dig, but I took it at face value. I asked him to craft a list of his desires, and a year later, I had the first draft of VIRULENT sitting in the bottom of my desk drawer.
Prior to Kevin’s literary request, I had thought of myself as a reader of the dystopian genre, but not a writer of the dystopian genre. However, now that I have spent time in the speculative fiction world, I’m a convert. There is something thrilling about the creation of new worlds and engaging in the decimation of old worlds. Speculative fiction at its core draws readers into the depths of the human experience.
There is so much to explore about human nature and behavior, and that is what I love the most about dystopian literature. When I wrote VIRULENT, I wanted to start pre-dystopia and show how a dystopian society could develop, and I wanted it to feel like something that could happen tomorrow with no warning. The idea that we don’t know what tomorrow will bring is not a source of anxiety, but excitement when looked at through the lens of fiction. It gives us a blank slate to imagine any multitude of possibilities.
For speculative fiction writers, the plot may be dystopian, but the story is about the people. What started as an experiment for a student ended with a trilogy whose scope and sequence sets out to look into the heart of a holocaust and explore the humanity of the survivors. Thank you for reading.
Virulent: The Release
Shelbi Wescott
Copyright 2013 Shelbi Wescott
All rights reserved.
To Matthew:
My love, my support, my voice of reason and strength
To Elliott and Isaac:
Everything is for you
PROLOGUE
365 days before The Release
One thousand feet beneath the surface of the earth, two men stood on the edge of a dirt walkway. The generators around them hummed with vibrant energy, and the lights flickered in a syncopated beat. The rich smell of mineral-fresh dirt, mixed with the softer and foreign smells of clean plastic and cut lumber, filled their hearts with equal parts longing and anticipation. They exchanged a fleeting look before venturing further into their creation—stopping to peer over the handrails and the expanse of a white domed ceiling where sporadic ‘sun’roofs let the men sneak a peek at the hard-hatted workers below.
“Our face-time conference is in five,” the younger man said to the older man, and he checked the time on the tablet he kept tucked under his arm. He swiped a finger across the screen
activating the device and typed in his password. “Ready to ascend?”
The older man took a long scan of the dome and nodded. Then he cupped his hand around the younger man’s shoulder and gave it three small congratulatory pats. “This is good, son,” he said. “This is very good.”
“It’s coming along,” the younger man answered and slid out from under the touch. “But my concern is not with the shelter. Come on, the call. We can’t miss the call,” he turned to the vertical lift, a metal box with exposed sides, and climbed aboard. He entered a secondary code, pushed a bright yellow button, and they rose—foot-by-foot—back up to the bright morning sunlight, which spilled over the yellow grass and porous dunes of the Sand Hills.
The two men stood together—not speaking. Beneath their feet, the younger man thought he felt the rumble of their generators, but he assumed he was imagining phantom vibrations. Everything was secured underground, meticulously hidden away from all detection and threats of discovery.
The tablet beeped with a chipper ding ding ding, and the young man answered without delay. “Hello, good morning,” he said to the man whose face materialized on the screen.
“Good morning,” the clean-shaven man with gray on his temples replied, delivering a perfunctory smile before reaching down to adjust his screen—his hand looming large in front of the camera, springing out at them then retreating. He sat at a desk, his white lab coat opened to expose a blue and green plaid shirt, a red Pilot pen stuck in the front pocket. “Calling in for confirmation meeting at an undisclosed location, employee code on your command.”
“Go ahead,” the younger man repeated with a glance backward.
“Seven Two Four Eight Three Zero.”
“Validated. Hello, Scott, hello. Sorry if you tried to catch us a second ago. We were touring the system and the service underground is lacking. By the time we reach the release date, however, we should be wired for all communication needs. Our best men are on it. The dome is coming along nicely. It’s an impressive work of art.”
“Sorry, art is not my area of expertise,” Scott replied, putting his hands up in mock surrender, then dropping them to the desk, a nervous laugh covering his failed joke. “No, no; I caught you on the first try.” Scott paused and then cleared his throat. “Well, I have good news this morning. We’ve made significant progress. I can brief you again at our next scheduled conference…to confirm…but as of this morning, control group six has responded successfully to the release.”
“That is wonderful news,” the older man answered.
“We’ve been pleased, yes. It appears that our initial projections were not far from reality.”
“Incubation period?”
Scott nodded and consulted a yellow legal pad in front of him. “Our observations seem to put it anywhere between twenty-four hours and six days. The average around thirty-six hours after exposure.”
“Any immunities?”
“None in the first six control studies, but it will be impossible to know for sure until we graduate to a more representative sampling.”
The younger man turned and stole a look before focusing back at the screen. “Does that mean we are ready to begin the next phase?”
Scott scratched at the corner of his eye. He blinked and nodded. “Yes. On your word, my team will begin to test the subjects your company has procured for our next stage.” Scott closed his eyes and sighed—the deep exhale of breath rushed against the microphone and was audible to the gentlemen. The younger man bristled and glanced backward to the older.
“Scott,” he said, his voice tight and terse, “I hope that sigh does not indicate that you are having second-thoughts about our work? Because you guaranteed me…” the man’s voice rose, but then he paused. Stopped. “Your work with us is invaluable. We never said this would be an easy road…but—”
Leaning closer to the screen, Scott waved his hand to silence the impending speech. “May I talk to your father please?”
The younger passed the tablet off, his arms crossing over his chest, his dark eyes storming.
“Hello, Scotty,” the older said.
“Huck. Good morning.”
“Are you for our cause?” Huck asked. “This is what I asked you when we met the first time and this is what I ask you now. Every other question is of no consequence to me. Are you for the cause?” He waited and the wind rustled the grass.
“I am,” was the reply.
“Then we are united in good. We are bound in blessing,” Huck said with a grandfatherly smile. “Now, do you have a concern to address?”
“None with my work…our work, I mean. I am only making sure that our agreement—as you move to the final stages—is still good. You see, as my job here becomes more,” Scott paused and searched for the appropriate word, “trying…I need validation that when the time comes we will be protected.”
Huck knit his brows. “I will ignore this question of my integrity, Scott. The worry that I would betray our agreement is alarming. I am a man of my word. Our agreement stands,” the man said with swift decision and handed the tablet back to his son without a formal goodbye.
“So, then. All set?” the younger asked to the man in the lab coat, his jaw tight.
“Yes, we will begin tomorrow morning with control group seven,” Scott said. “Conference in one week to go over results. Same time?”
“As always.”
The screen faded to black and the man tucked it under his arm. He turned to his father who faced the horizon with his eyes closed. “You are too generous, Dad,” he said. “It would be easy to dispose of him after his work with us is complete. Especially considering his tenuous grasp on the importance of our next few stages. You know he’s only concerned for himself. What good will that do us when we move into the dome?”
“He has earned his freedom.”
The younger snorted. “Freedom? Don’t be foolish.”
“If I thought you didn’t believe in our cause, I wouldn’t hesitate to end our partnership either,” Huck drew out every syllable. “But I know that is just my paranoia, right?”
“Please, Dad, I’m your biggest fan,” the son said without missing a beat and turned toward their waiting car, a sardonic smile spreading across his thin lips.
CHAPTER ONE
Release Day
Lucy King leaned her right hip against the side of Mrs. Johnston’s metal desk. She held her black and white composition notebook with both hands and re-read the signs and posters taped to the wall for the sixtieth time since September: Shakespeare’s ubiquitous portrait with scripted letters underneath proclaiming, “Lord, what fools these mortals be who don’t turn in their homework!“, and a picture in the shape of a dachshund—Groucho Marx’s famous inside-of-a-dog quote twisted along its insides.
Concrete poetry.
If you write a poem about a light bulb, you make the whole thing look like a light bulb.
Lucy might not have remembered the definition except Mrs. Johnston had crafted a giant red arrow pointing toward the dog and had written “Concrete Poetry!!!” with three exclamation marks. Loose-leaf notebook paper hung precariously next to the Marx quote; it was a gathering of student samples with poems about cats that in no way resembled cats and a horrible poem about rainbows written in alternating gel-pens. The names on the papers were from students who had graduated years ago. Whether Mrs. Johnston failed to take them down from laziness or true admiration was anyone’s guess.
A redheaded boy in a baseball hat and athletic shorts sat with Mrs. Johnston as she mumbled superlatives and then passed him back a notebook.
“So, let’s rewrite that topic sentence, AJ,” Mrs. Johnston said as the boy rose, stretched, and shuffled away. Then Lucy sank into the available chair and passed her own notebook to her teacher. Johnston didn’t even glance up at her as she poured over the pages, scratching them with red marks that looked like a star-circle crossbreed of a shape.
“Good, good,” her English teacher mumbled. A flourish. A star.
A circle. A plus-sign. An ink blot where she had rested her pen while reading a passage. “Okay. Good. Thank you. Nice comments,” she said, and she handed the notebook back with a smile.
“Thank you,” Lucy replied, but she stayed seated. “Um, Mrs. Johnston…I was wondering if I could grab my work from you?”
For a moment, Mrs. Johnston looked confused and then she grimaced and clicked her tongue. “That’s right, that’s right. Mexico? No, wait…it was more obscure. Tahiti? Fiji?”
A flame crept up Lucy’s cheeks and she lowered her head. “Seychelles.”
Mrs. Johnston put up a single finger and pointed at Lucy as she pivoted on her ergonomic office chair; leaning over a pile of paper, she brought up a search engine on her computer. When the results materialized, she whistled low and loud, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t Fiji have been closer?” her teacher asked attempting a joke, but the result just made her sound bitter.
“My dad won it,” Lucy answered.
“How?” Mrs. Johnston asked, curious and hopeful.
“Through work.”
She wrinkled her nose and waved a hand around the classroom without comment then turned back to Lucy. “Two full weeks? Jeez. Maybe this job would be better if they sent us all away for tropical vacations during the winter break!” Mrs. Johnston said with a boisterous laugh and the students raised their lazy heads to glance at her before huddling down over their notebooks again.
Lucy nodded and picked a piece of lint off her jeans; she rolled it into a tight little ball and then tossed it to the ground.
“We’re starting this,” Mrs. Johnston said and procured a tattered paperback from a stack by her desk. Its spine was reinforced with yellow tape and Lucy took the book from her and idly flipped through the pages. Someone had left a series of lipstick kisses across the title page in various shades next to the declaration: Derrick Chan Forever.
What Tomorrow May Bring Page 252
