The Liger Plague (Book 1)

by Joseph Souza

  Jumping behind the wheel, he slammed the door shut and gunned it in reverse. The tires spun in the dirt before quickly accelerating backwards. He asked for God’s forgiveness, praying that Monica and Taylor were not among the crowd. The tailgate rammed into their midsections and caused their bodies to collapse inward like rag dolls. He pumped the brake, and they fell back to the ground. Then he repeated the process several times, causing the successive groups to fall back as well. The multiple collisions rocked the inside of the cab. Shifting the truck into drive, he moved ten feet forward before putting it into reverse again. This time the wheels of the truck climbed over a pile of downed poxers. Versa cried out in pain after her head hit the roof. The next wave did something that surprised him. They anticipated his arrival and jumped into the bed of the truck and rolled all the way to the cabin. Three of the diseased got up on their knees and banged on the cabin window with their bare hands. Tag shifted into drive and punched it. The truck’s wheels spun in the dirt before rocketing ahead, sending two of the three poxers somersaulting off the truck’s bed.

  The last poxer balled his swollen hand into a fist and smashed it through the rear window. He reach inside and gripped Fez’s hair and started to pull the kid’s head through the jagged shards of glass, his mouth open and waiting to tear into his scalp. Fez screamed and desperately held on to the steering wheel, trying to keep from being dragged out the back window. Tag pulled out his Magnum and fired a shot into the poxer’s head and the diseased man’s body instantly went slack, but his scarred hand had frozen in rigor mortis, locked in a death grip onto Fez’s hair. Rather than touch his diseased skin, Tag took out his combat knife and lopped off the kid’s hair, instantly freeing him from the man’s grip. The dead poxer fell back lifeless against the bed. Tag reversed the truck over the bodies sprawled out along the dirt road, eager to get back onto the main road.

  He drove faster in reverse than he should have, not caring now if he crashed into a tree. Mosquitoes, moths, fireflies and bugs of all manner flew in through the cab’s shattered window, causing the three of them to swat away the pests. When he reached the main road, he shifted it into idle and got out to check on the condition of the truck. The tailgate was dented and covered in blood. Thick woods surrounded him on each side. Deep within the trees an owl hooted while an army of crickets chirped. He pointed the flashlight toward the top of the main road and saw about a dozen poxers headed toward him. Could they smell the scent of healthy flesh? He grabbed a folded-up yellow tarp that had been weighted down by a small table saw and, using the edges, dragged the bloody corpse off the bed and over the tailgate. Then he climbed back into the cab and sped off down the road, headlights on high beam.

  “There’s a dirt road about a mile away that leads to old man Cooper’s place,” Fez said.

  “Great! That’s all we need now is another dirt road to travel down. Thought we’d never make it out of that last one.”

  “Hate to tell you this, Tag, but this dirt road’s even narrower than the last.”

  “Where’d you get your driving license, Colonel? China? You nearly gave me a concussion back there,” Versa complained, rubbing the top of her head.

  “Didn’t see you doing any better.”

  “Don’t blame her for that, Tag. She didn’t see that tree jump out in front of her,” Fez joked.

  “You better watch your mouth, boy!” Versa said, turning away.

  Tag and Fez laughed for the first time since they’d been together. Fez told him to take the next left. He turned down the dark, narrow road, feeling more comfortable going forward than in reverse. By turning on the high beams, he could see every notch in the road. The road became more bumpy and rugged, jostling them around in the crowded cabin.

  “How the hell does he get down here in the winter when there’s ten feet of snow?”

  “Got himself a truck and a plow, but he rarely leaves his place. He’s got his boat too.”

  “How far we going, Fez?”

  “The road goes about a half mile before it opens up to the water. Used to ride our dirt bikes down here all the time and torment the old dude. Lots of great paths to ride on, and the cops never bothered us because they couldn’t ever catch us.”

  “I’ve never been to this part of the island,” Tag said.

  “It’s where the trailer trash live. It’s no wonder you’ve never come to these parts,” Versa said. “Not exactly Cooke’s most popular tourist destination.”

  “We wouldn’t want some old biddy like you here, anyway,” Fez said, turning back to Tag. “Maybe it ain’t the most touristy part of town, but I wouldn’t live anywhere else on this island. This is where the real homeys live.”

  Tag smiled at the kid as he drove along the winding, tree-lined road. When he returned his gaze to the road, he saw three poxers staggering out of the woods. The headlights illuminated their ghastly appearance and made them appear even more monstrous. They jumped out into the path of the truck, seemingly unafraid of getting hit but raising their arms to shield themselves from the light. He cut the wheel hard to the left out of instinct, but the truck skidded sideways, its side panel careening into them. They went airborne, landing thirty feet away, their bodies mangled and bloody. The truck continued to swerve. Tag cut the wheel to the left to compensate, but it was too late. The front end smashed into a giant pine near the shoulder of the road, bouncing his head off the windshield. The truck gasped and died, and the radiator hissed loudly. Clouds of steam rose up out of the hood.

  “Didn’t they teach you how to drive in that Chinese army you were in?” Versa complained, massaging the back of her neck.

  “You guys all right?” Tag asked, wiping the blood out of his eyes.

  “I’m cool,” Fez said.

  “Looks like you got the worst of it, Colonel,” Versa said. “Serves you right for driving like a madman.”

  “Look over there.” Fez pointed. “There’s more of them coming out of the woods.”

  “How far is it to the old man’s house?”

  “A good ways, but we can probably make it if we leave now.”

  “Let’s do it. Don’t fire your weapon unless you absolutely have to. The sound of gunshots will alert every poxer in the vicinity.”

  “Follow me,” Fez said, jumping out.

  Tag took out his combat knife and ordered Versa to move ahead. The three of them moved down the darkened road. Behind him he could see a few distorted shadows limping after them. Without warning, a figure appeared in the road and tackled Fez to the ground. Tag ran up behind the thrashing poxer, now sitting on the kid’s stomach, and plunged the combat knife through his temple. The screeching female collapsed against the road. Tag lifted Fez by the shirt collar and pulled him up. Once the kid’s feet hit the ground, he took off running.

  “Come on! Hurry up!” Fez said urgently.

  “Let’s go,” Tag said to Versa.

  They started down the pitch-black road. Tag jogged backwards, aiming his beam of light back toward the narrow opening. The infected staggered in, filling the small corridor.

  “Keep moving, Fez! They’re coming for us!”

  “It’s down the road a ways. You can’t miss Cooper’s house if you keep going straight,” the kid replied.

  Tag called out to Versa to see if she was still behind him, and she grunted in reply. The cacophonous moans of the diseased cried out, and he knew that if the three of them could survive this madness until sunrise, they’d be safe for another day.

  He slowed down and waited for Versa. Fez had probably already reached the old fisherman’s house by now. Tag was glad he’d continued to work out and keep in shape. The daily workouts and three-mile runs were serving him well. Little had he known back then the extent to which he would be grateful for such conditioning.

  He high-stepped to keep from tripping over the debris in the road. Large rocks and tree roots lay scattered about, and he knew that falling could be the difference between life and death. He thought about Monica and Taylor,
wondering if they were still alive. The rapid progression of this viral strain indicated to him that they must be in the full throes of the pox. He prayed to God that his family would be okay until he found them—and he knew he would.

  “Versa? You still here?”

  “I may be old and slow, Colonel, but I ain’t ready to die just yet,” she replied, maybe twenty yards behind him.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He understood now that this event was no empty threat. Whoever had unleashed this virus onto Cooke’s Island had done so with a distinct purpose in mind. And the caller was right. If this strain ever made it onto the mainland, it would spread like wildfire and kill and disfigure millions worldwide. The country’s identity would forever be changed by the civil unrest that would inevitably occur. Unfortunately, any hope for a vaccine would be wishful thinking. The time, effort and money it would take to create an effective vaccine would be insurmountable in such a short period of time. Such a vaccine would take months, if not years, of intense research and development, and even if they did miraculously come up with one, it would need to be manufactured and distributed on a massive, previously unheard of scale.

  He worried about his kids on the mainland as much as he worried about Monica and Taylor. What had the caller meant about choosing which family to save? There was nothing he could do to keep people from leaving the island; that was now up to the Coast Guard and federal authorities. Maybe saving his kids on the mainland was a metaphor for saving the country at large. He didn’t think that was farfetched, considering that he’d spent much of his career in public service, trying to protect the nation from the likes of such horrifying terrorist acts and apocalyptic scenarios. And now the entire nation lay on the brink of disaster. This particular notion never occurred to him before now. He needed to do something heroic and superhuman. But what? He needed to somehow stop this lunatic, who claimed to be somewhere on this island. He had no idea who the person was, whether it was a male or female, or what the person, or persons, even looked like.

  Public service had been his life. For some government employees it may have been a comfortable existence: a pension, a cushy job with early retirement and great healthcare. For him it had been both a noble choice and a self-serving one at the same time. He loved researching viruses and trying to identify the most lethal threats known to mankind, and at times couldn’t believe he got paid for doing it. Sure, he could have made more money in the private sector and, in fact, had been offered a job as CEO of a bioengineering firm in Seattle, only to turn it down in order to keep the job he truly loved.

  He ran through his mind a list of all the persons he worked with in his years at the Institute, attempting to think of anyone who could have committed this atrocity. Sure, there had always been personality conflicts and political infighting, but he couldn’t recall one person in particular he had any egregious differences with in all the years he’d been employed there. Rather, he thought he got along well with just about every scientist he’d dealt with, especially considering his lofty position in the organization. Some of these same scientists had moved into the private sector and had gotten great-paying jobs as researchers and university professors. Others had received promotions and had gone on to work at the CDC, Homeland Security or the Pentagon. He’d kept in contact with most of the scientists he’d worked with, writing glowing work reviews for those seeking employment elsewhere.

  As Tag was mentally scrolling through the list of names of all the scientists he’d ever encountered, he broke through the tree line and reached a clearing. The sound of waves pounding rocks echoed in his ears, and the soft glow of moonlight provided just enough light to illuminate the lone dilapidated house sitting on the jetty. He slowed to a standstill and watched Versa stagger past him toward the house. The aerosol of surf washed over his face and arms, and the strong smell of ocean overwhelmed him. The house, which in the dim light looked old and rundown, was dotted with weather-beaten shingles that had seen better days. A path led up to a narrow isthmus built on rocks and surrounded by the water. A six-foot chain-link fence surrounded the footpath leading to the house. The roof was in need of much repair, and a blue tarp covered one third of its surface. A small, protective cove was nestled between the rocks and the house. He saw Fez sprinting in the faint glow of moonlight, heading straight for the path. A Coast Guard boat cruised out in the harbor, shining their lights along the rocky shoreline.

  “Come on, you guys,” Fez called, waving his arm.

  Tag looked back and saw the parade of poxers staggering out into the clearing. Fez started to climb the six-foot fence but fell back down upon hearing the sound of a man’s voice moving toward them. The burly owner of the house started to walk down the path, rifle in hand. Five-foot swells pounded against the rocks from the eastern side, shooting spray up in the air. The bear of a man stopped short of the gate, dropped to one knee, and pointed his shotgun at the three of them.

  “Get the hell off my property, you little brat, or I’ll shoot!”

  “We’re gonna die if we stay out here!” Fez said, glancing back at the army of poxers emerging out of the darkness. “I’m an islander just like you. Live on the other side of Broad Cove.”

  “I know where you and your family live. Seen you little hellions tearing it up on your bikes out here after I ordered you off my property.”

  “Please don’t let us die out here, Mr. Cooper,” Tag said, arms held high in surrender.

  “Even if I did let you three in, what’s to say you don’t got that disease going around?”

  “Because if we had it, we’d have already gotten sick by now,” Tag said, turning to the approaching mob.

  “You owe me, old man. It was my dad who towed you back three years ago when the Norma Ray started taking in water two miles out.”

  “Which is the reason I never shot you little sons-of-bitches,” the man said, pointing his rifle at the three of them. “Besides, the Norma Ray’s gone now. Them Coasties shot her up good yesterday and sunk her in the bay. I got no way of making a living now.”

  “Forget the goddamn lobstering, man. Just let us in before they tear us to pieces. Please, we’re begging you. When they leave your property, we’ll be gone,” Tag said.

  “Alright, I’ll let you in, as long as you get the hell out of here as soon as possible.”

  “We promise,” Fez said.

  The motor of the Coast Guard boat cruised near the jetty. Tag could hear someone onboard talking through a loudspeaker. He turned back and saw the mob of poxers approaching. The old lobsterman knelt down to open the padlock. The Coast Guard’s floodlight merged with the sweeping beam of the harbor lighthouse and briefly converged on the poxers. The gate opened, and Tag, Fez and Versa rushed inside to safety. The old man slammed the gate behind him and hooked the latch. He clicked it shut just as the first poxer wrapped his blistered fingers around one of the chain links.

  Tag turned around and saw the poxers reflected in the beam of light. The sound of gunfire rang out, and the infected convulsed and twitched as their bodies were riddled with bullets. The poxer gripping the fence peered through the links, his crazed eyes begging for whatever his addled brain was in need of. A purplish-reddish spittle oozed from the corners of his cracked lips. Every inch of his face was covered in hard, volcanic pustules waiting to erupt with viral ashes. His face looked as if it might explode on touch. Tag felt sorry for the guy, and at the same time, he despised him.

  “Please help me, man. I don’t know what the hell’s happening to me. My mind’s all screwed up,” the man whispered.

  “Why are you chasing us?”

  “The smell is driving me crazy. And I’m hungry like I’ve never been hungry in my life.” He licked his scabbed lips and rolled his eyes back in his head, revealing bone-white orbs. “Help me find my family?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  “Asshole! Let me the fuck in!” the man shouted furiously. He shook the chain-link fence so hard that Tag thoug
ht he might actually pull it down.

  Tag stood and walked backwards, keeping his eyes glued to the four poxers now shaking the fence alongside the angry man. The man’s mood had shifted so violently that it stunned him.

  “Shit! Get down!” the old lobsterman said, dropping to his knees. “Them Coasties don’t even know I’m here, and if I fire this rifle, it’ll alert them to our whereabouts. They’re shooting everything that moves, so follow me and stay the hell down.”

  They crawled single file toward the house. Observing the illuminated corpses sprawled out over the beach, he prayed that Monica and Taylor were not among them. The voice over the loudspeaker asked if there were any survivors, and to come forward with arms up. Tag laughed. After this brutal massacre, did the Coast Guard really think anyone would step forward?

  They made their way to the front door. Lobster traps and scratched buoys sat piled along the front yard. The lobsterman rose to his knees, opened the front door, and crawled inside the dark house. Once they passed over the threshold, a beam of light from the nearby Coast Guard vessel shone on the wall just above their heads. They stayed low and perfectly still. A few minutes passed. Convinced that they’d left no survivors behind, the engine revved, and the boat headed out into the harbor. The hefty lobsterman got up and moved over to the window to peek through the filthy drapes. Assured that the cove behind his house was now clear, he turned to the others and held up his rifle.

  “Let’s get things straight. I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of you. So go against me at your own peril. And if you don’t like my rules, then there’s the door.”

  Chapter 18

  Cooper, the old lobsterman, closed the drape, and the dark once again filled the small, cluttered room. Tag stared into the blackness, having no idea if the man still had the rifle pointed at him or was staring out the window. He was exhausted, hungry and bewildered by the bizarre behavior exhibited by the infected. He inhaled and nearly gagged from the stench. The house smelled of mold and rotting shellfish, and he had no doubt that the old fisherman lived by himself and had not cleaned the place in years.