“Place fragments of DNA code from each bottle into the dish, like so.” The technician demonstrated. “Gradually, you’ll construct a synthetic copy of the original DNA into which you will place a recipient bacterium. It will grow and divide, creating two child cells. One will contain artificial DNA, the other natural or infected DNA. You will repeat this procedure until you have filled all sample dishes. You will place test samples beside each dish. You will number each dish with coded tape. You may power the facility down to standby mode and go home after that. Do you understand my instructions, Harold?”
The security camera zoomed in on Harold’s chubby, spotty face. Two blood-shot eyes focused on the ample cleavage available through the gaping blouse his female colleague wore. Harold’s eyes barely shifted in acknowledgment. The snot-nosed, bleary-eyed Harold swiped contaminated moisture drips from his nose with his lab coat sleeve, then nodded slowly. At which time, he dropped the sample petri dish, scattering the contents at his feet. The senior Lab-Tech moved out the camera’s view. Cackling female laughter followed diminishing footsteps on a hard floor.
The reporter provided a blow-by-blow description of how the killer virus was subsequently created by a coughing, sneezing, infected Lab-Tech, then how it escaped the confines of a secure laboratory. The reporter turned to a frozen, shifty image of Harold leering at his female colleague. Images rolled. “Harold blended Virii on petri dishes with alacrity he rarely displayed. Typically, he took shortcuts. Ignoring basic sanitary and isolation procedures, Harold filled each dish in record time, contaminating everything he touched with his own peculiar blend of Hendra and Lyssa Virii. Sneezing and coughing droplets of moisture into each sample, Harold energetically went at his task with exceptional enthusiasm.
“Isolated security images prove Harold coughed onto every petrie dish, and he never missed, not once.” The troubled reporter went on to explain how the Virii Harold handled were fatal in case of infection. Ninety-nine percent of the infected died. However, in Harold’s case, he not only managed to cross contaminate the Virii, but he’d also cross infected himself with the strains of Bird and Swine Flus by physical transfer. Later, to the amazement of the lab staff, Harold failed to do the decent thing and die. Well, not immediately.
Hours of recorded CCTV images proved beyond a reasonable doubt Harold’s coughing, sneezing, nose-picking, and general unsanitary behavior was directly attributable to creating the unknown but powerfully infectious killer disease. The reporter explained each disease’s history. Providing fatality chart ratings, he interviewed a panel of experts on each Virii. The panel of medical sages agreed on what would take place if the infected were not properly treated, although not a one of the experts would publicly risk their reputation to speculate on what the consequences of five lethal Virii combined in a single host might produce. One scientist timidly ventured to the infected would suffer flu-like symptoms, along with severe to blindingly painful headaches, stomach cramps, violent shivering, raging fevers and incomprehension of their whereabouts. They should fall into a stupor, and sadly, he added, die.
The reported continued, “Though, as it turned out, that was not the case. Competing Virii mutated into an unknown Virii to form the most effective destroyer of humans on the planet. Only this Virii didn’t quite kill the infected. Apart from the very young and some elderly victims, the infected survived in a semi-living comatose state. In early cases, doctors noted communication in this state was limited to savage grunts or animal-like growls. Following several assaults and subsequent interventions by police, medical experts concluded, the infected experienced no pain. Immune to the extreme, benign controls like police stun guns made treatment a risky task.
“Later, cattle prods failed too. As time wore on and the body count of treating medical staff rose, the only proven control methods were physical avoidance or applying a serious brain injury with a very long, blunt instrument swung from shoulder height as hard as possible. Security and public CCTV images depicted thousands of lethal encounters with naïve, unsuspecting healthy humans and the vicious infected. Across the globe, countless CCTV depicted multiple incidents. Most infected were approached by concerned friends, relatives or medical staff. By this stage of the disease, the infected were blind and disorientated. Milk-white eyes stared blankly at the world around them. It appeared to medical experts that the infected’s hearing and smelling senses were somehow heightened by the infection, along with their incredible strength.
“The infected would lift their head and sniff, shuffling and snuffling as the infected lined the nearest healthy individual up. Experts later speculated this was because the virus affected their brain function to the point that both remaining senses had locked-on before the message traveled to whatever living part of the brain organized aggressive behavior. Once an infected locked onto a target, they attacked in a violent fit of rage. Fighting back with fists and kicks was useless. The infected felt no pain. Possessed of abnormal strength, an infected was the equal of four healthy adult males. On one series of local CCTV images, a skinny ninety-year-old dementia patient proved a force to be reckoned with by four of Charleston’s hospitals more-than-capable security officers.
“Confinement upon onset of symptoms, running for your life, or employing a blunt instrument to the head were safer treatment options. Once an infected pinned a victim down, their fate was sealed. Hate and rage manifested into nauseating scenes of cannibalism. If an unfortunate victim was not torn to meaty shreds and died, they too joined the infected’s swelling ranks. Subsequently, infected relatives, friends, and medical personnel infected by means of saliva through biting or blood spatter spread the disease at an alarming rate.
“The first reported cases of illness traceable to Harold were the unfortunate passengers on the bus he and his girlfriend Narelle shared to a restaurant off Broad Street. Later that evening, Narelle. along with several passengers, restaurant staff, diners and their families presented at Charleston Hospital’s Department of Emergency Medicine, complaining of severe flu-like symptoms. Harold’s Lab-Tech colleagues and hospital emergency staff succumbed the next morning. Despite adopting routine hygiene procedures, lab staff unwittingly spread Harold’s infection throughout the university campus to unsuspecting visitors, staff, and students. That day was the day prior to the Christmas holiday break. Infected staff, students, and patients returning to home countries created a worldwide pandemic. The infection spread outward from international airports into cities like a tidal wave of destruction.
“Meanwhile, back in Washington, by New Year’s, bureaucrats were waking up to the danger as pandemic reports flooded in from across the globe. January second, Harold and Narelle became the country’s first two infected to resist all known treatments. Hospital CCTV images depicted Harold getting his brains bashed in by a severely wounded and desperate security guard, whose fate was already sealed by the bite on his arm. Harold did not so much attack as he went berserk. Eight staff failed to restrain Harold from sinking his teeth multiple times into two elderly patients. The two kindly old women had decided to comfort the dear, sick boy in the next room with cookies and milk brought in for that purpose by caring relatives.
“During the melee, Harold infected two nurses, three security officers, a registrar and the two elderly patients before he was tied with hospital sheets to a chair. Unwittingly, these good people returned to work and their ward rounds to infect other hospital staff. Later, weary from a day’s hard work, they returned to their humble communities and comfortable homes, spreading the infection deeper into the suburbs.
“Struggling security guards were seen hauling a snapping Harold to an isolation room, where he was observed exclusively by CCTV. Gnashing his teeth manically, Harold was later restrained by six security officers into a straitjacket. This proved a hard lesson for watching medical staff. Harold couldn’t be drugged into submission, or otherwise sedated. An hour into considering experimental treatment, nurses and security officers had figured out that only by pinning
Harold to a wall with a mattress could they restrain him long enough to get the straitjacket on. Eventually, staff gave up treatment up as a bad idea and waited for him to die of natural causes.
“Six weeks later, Harold continued to lunge and snap at awed medical staff. Meanwhile, laboratories across the world raced to create a vaccine as millions fell ill. Hundreds of thousands were infected and infecting more each hour. Medical, security and government services strained to a breaking point. In South Carolina, public services broke down in the fourth week. Highways, airports, and rail stations were clogged with vehicles when public power grids commenced to fail. Food storage facilities across the United States went into lockdown in the eighth week. Twenty-four hours later, riots over foodstuffs, drinking water, and shelter broke out. Healthy communities contracted, armed, and defended themselves. Makeshift barriers swiftly went up, establishing city and country safe havens. Those communities vigorously and brutally defended their sanctuaries by any means possible.
“Helicopter newscasts reported numerous havens collapsing from within as hordes of infected pushed outward. In cities, authorities regained a measure of control by employing drastic measures. Martial law was declared the at the beginning of the third month. Armed military personnel stalked American streets with a kill-infected-on-sight mandate. Headless and head injured corpses mounted on sidewalks, football fields, parks, and highways. Mortuary and hospital incinerators could not cope. Mobile incinerators were hastily constructed by the Corps of Engineers and dispatched to suburban hospitals and townships. In many cases, it was too late. No one was in any fit state to operate them.”
The haggard reporter displayed a tiny vial between thumb and forefinger. “Declaring the surviving population would soon receive life-saving vaccinations, all attempts to recover the infected failed. They could not be cured. Anyone found with an infected confined to a basement or bedroom would be prosecuted. Vaccinations”—he went on, shaking the vial—”would commence with the youngest members of society up to those living in old folk’s homes commencing Monday.” The vidscreen went black. The newscast looped to the beginning and recommenced.
Kitch approached a middle-aged nurse who looked like she could sleep for a week. She was a homely looking woman, plump, with soft pink skin and dark hair playing about her damp temples in the warm breeze. Her eyes were brown and kind, but red and sore looking underscored by deep grey bags fading to a purple color. A faint bead of sweat marred her upper lip. He rolled up his sleeve, exposed his arm, took his shot and turned to walk away. Pausing, he faced the nurse as she injected another youth and asked, “Excuse me, ma’am. How long before my dad gets his shot?”
She responded as kindly as she could under the circumstances, injecting a girl. “Son, I’d be guessing he’s over fifty, like me. Two, three months maybe, if the laboratory staff can keep up the pace and if the military can deliver it. Way things are, kid, I’m figuring you’re the lucky ones. No telling how long we can keep this up. I’m fixing to stay here, safety in numbers. Maybe you’n your dad should consider that?”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome, kid. Good luck.”
The nurse was soon lost in a sea of teenagers.
Chapter Two: Reality check
Ten months post infection
A golden dawn blessed South Carolina’s residents with warmth and cheer, well for those who survived the apocalypse it did. Those who didn’t weren’t taking all that much notice, to tell the truth. In one particular Johns Island home, Kitch McCall was having trouble locating his dad.
Mike McCall was an early riser by habit. A quick search and Kitch discovered his dad wasn’t in the kitchen preparing breakfast as he had for the past nineteen years. A thorough search of the McCall’s twenty-fourth century home revealed a message on the refrigerator door’s inventory screen. Pulsating white letters flowing across a light blue background, beat out the following message—Kitch, do not to open the outside doors, no matter what. Gone for supplies. Back soon, love Dad.
It was Mike McCall’s habit to return with a knapsack bulging with food and medications well before dawn. If delayed, Kitch should relax, remain patient and play virtual games. Deleting the note, he cracked the door seal. Collecting the last soda and two out-of-date energy bars, Kitch decided an interactive game on his VOID required perfection. As an agreed parental strategy, games distracted Kitch from Tourette’s and the insanity enveloping the outside world. Down to half doses of his regular medication, it was only a matter of time before his TS kicked in somewhere north of the inconvenient scale.
Hours later, Kitch’s senses took in his bedroom. As he set aside a Virtual helmet, a warning blasted a message into his teenage brain. It kicked off with a complaining stomach before moving onto more mundane matters, like why couldn’t he smell food cooking? Something was drastically wrong. Sliding off his bed, he remembered what it was as his feet hit the cold floor. His dad, where the heck was he? The guy was like clockwork. If he said he was coming home at dawn, he was, but he hadn’t. He should be downstairs in the kitchen cooking by now.
Kitch hurriedly padded down to the kitchen, but his nose told him that the InstaCook was cold long before he rounded the dining room corner. The wall clock he passed indicated four PM. Utter silence confirmed his worst fears. He was alone. Considering what lurked outside, Kitch’s heart skipped a beat. No less than a beat later, his Tourette’s kicked in with facial tics and leg spasms, like it always did when he required clarity of thought. Kitch grimaced and cursed the son of a bitch long and hard. Toughening his mind, Kitch worked his Tourette’s back to a manageable position. Arms rigid by his side, fists clenched, and face fixed into a scowl, he calmed his breathing and forced down his anger. As clarity returned, he considered what came next, then breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed his body.
Thumbing his VOID to search status, Kitch sat at the dining room table. He set the personal communication device down so the console faced him. He stabbed his index finger at the console twice and watched it spring into life. He sat back, folded his arms and watched static-filled holographic images develop over the table surface with growing alarm.
Frowning, the anxious teenager grimaced. The fact that America’s iNet was a dying entity was no secret. The fact that it was in its death throes shocked Kitch to his core. Only a month ago, looping news-feeds choked information channels to an unprecedented failure before the Net rebooted to a more favorable speed. As the infection first spread rapidly across South Carolina, interconnected teenagers communicated on a peer-to-peer basis by the second. Vivid details of the worsening crisis spread at an unprecedented rate and volume. Four months later, all inter-VOID communications all but trickled to a halt. Now—nothing, zero, or zip as his dad often remarked. All VOIDs within Kitch’s node on Johns Island had long since powered down.
Thirty years had passed since the last shot was fired in World War Four. The last radical invaders were slaughtered to a man on a California beach December, 24th, 2278. Since that celebrated date, America’s iNet had never failed. No matter the load, it coped. When the plague was at its height, local and international newscasts spewed mega-bursts across the iNet—so much so, it ground to a halt. Hard to believe, looking at his struggling VOID now.
Kitch commenced a slow, deep scan few VOIDs were capable of. Barely a half-dozen pre-war, solar-powered nodes relayed looping emergency newscasts. He picked up varieties of local, county, state, and federal government agency warnings on how to deal with the mayhem created by an international pandemic, but nothing else. As Kitch motioned his VOID to sleep, facial tics fluttered below his left eye. Nearing twenty, Kitch remained acutely aware that Tourette’s dictated how he’d lived up until the plague struck. Throw in stress caused by panic attacks and OCD behavior and Kitch barely managed some days, then only with strict parental supervision. While he had not conquered TS, Kitch had not surrendered to it. He was a fighter.
In the early years of diagnosis, the doctors Kitch’s dist
raught parents presented the twitching boy too had all said much of the same thing. Smiling at the stressed trio, the physician said in all probability, Kitch would grow out of the affliction during his late teens. To Kitch’s annoyance and bitter disappointment, that hadn’t been the case.
Always a quiet, intelligent and thoughtful little boy, Kitch was diagnosed a TS suffer after his horrified parents discovered their only child unable to communicate. Kitch remembered it had been a Tuesday night and bitterly cold. Wind and rain had rattled the windows. Kitch had returned home from one of Charleston’s most prestigious schools shaking uncontrollably. No matter what his desperate and frightened parents attempted to get him to talk, Kitch would not respond—he was incapable of speech. All he could manage was to sob and clutch his mother for support.
Hours later, following dozens of frantic holo-calls to teachers, school counselors, and medical staff, his distraught parents discovered the root of the problem. Constant harassment and bullying exacerbated Kitch’s undiagnosed, mild affliction by children lacking cognitive skills to empathize with his situation. In particular, one Junior Watson was a notorious bully from one of the county’s wealthiest families. At every opportunity, Junior’s gang of six-years-olds did what unsupervised kids did when teachers were absent. Mercilessly, they mocked, teased, mimicked and assaulted Kitch, until his tiny child’s spirit was almost broken.
From then until second grade, Kitch’s school life was a living nightmare dipped into hell from time to time by Junior Watson’s unique brand of physical violence and mental torment. Despite the best and sincere efforts of Kitch’s teachers, concerned parents, and unhelpful school counselors, the harassment did not abate. Rather, it went underground and developed into newer forms of physical and psychological punishments. Kitch’s tormentors, led by an enthusiastic Junior Watson, thrust his symptoms into overdrive.
Survival_Book 1_And Tomorrow Page 6
