Affliction
Dottie Daniels
Copyright © 2016 Dottie Daniels.
All rights reserved. No part(s) of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form, or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval systems without prior expressed written permission of the author of this book.
ISBN: 978-1-5356-0312-6
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
I woke up about five hours later than my usual five-thirty alarm. It was Thursday, the last day of my eight-day work stretch, which was supposed to begin at seven a.m. and end twelve hours later. I had been working twelve-hour shifts for the last four days in a row with the intention of making a nice contribution toward our vacation this summer once my boyfriend Graham went on break from his graduate studies. My eight-day stretch started out strong with regular eight-hour shifts but yesterday after day three of additional overtime, I felt a tingle in my throat. Convinced it was the beginnings of a cold from our rainier-than-usual spring May air, I took to the medicine cabinet last night before Graham left my apartment in Allentown for his rental house in the neighboring town of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania just before eleven. I’d taken what I thought was a magic combination of cold and flu tablets along with cough syrup for my sore throat. The last thing I remember was cuddling up with Graham, listening to his upcoming plans for a possible camping trip while watching Jimmy Kimmel. Needless to say, after taking the cold medicine I didn’t hear him leave my bedroom, much less my apartment, that night. We exchanged house keys over a year ago so he was used to coming and going as he pleased.
I was jolted awake by what sounded like a loud scream coming from a woman, followed by sobbing and then silence. Right after that I heard glass shatter outside from a car window being smashed; the car alarm sounded immediately. As I was shoveling the sheets and the comforter off me to go look out of my bedroom window, I heard more noise, this time a man yelling inside the apartment building. I couldn’t hear what he said at first but it ended with, “Man I know you hear me! What the hell is wrong with you? Get away from me, dude!” followed by a slamming door.
That was more of a distraction than the outside commotion because, even though the rent was reasonable, the apartment building was pretty quiet, and this kind of noise from other residents was definitely unusual. Hurrying to the front door to look out of the peephole, I glanced over at the clock on the wall in the living room. It was well after ten thirty, which meant the alarm next to my bed had long ago turned itself off. The medicine must’ve put me out cold because it was definitely not like me to ignore alarms, especially since my livelihood revolved around them every day. The pit of my stomach dropped.
Before I could make it to the peephole to look for any signs of the commotion, I heard a continuous, rapid series of knocks from the other side of my own door and a familiar voice, repeating my name.
“Seanna… Seanna are you there? Please let me know you’re there and open the door.”
I could always distinguish Ronald Bowen’s calm voice, even amongst the chatter of other voices, the noise of the equipment and running vehicles at the most chaotic of accident scenes. Since I became a paramedic four years ago, I’ve been partnered up with him; in fact, he was my preceptor when my training moved outside of the classroom. I found at first that we had little in common other than the fact that he and I were both half English—his other half was Scottish and mine was African American. When I first met him he was forty-two: old enough to be my father, as I was twenty-two, yet his own children were half my age. Our trainer/trainee relationship had been pretty good. I looked up to Ronny because he taught me so much—both in formal training and outside of it—and his work ethic was superior. By the end of my training he told me that I had a knack for paramedic work and recommended that I stay at Cedar Crest. I soon ended up partnering with him because his old shift partner never returned after a back injury. It wasn’t long after working with Ronny that we both learned more about each other and built a great working relationship. I wouldn’t call him a father figure— he’d swear I was calling him old, but Ronny had become like a favorite uncle to me.
I swung open the door, and Ronny—instantly assessing me in my T-shirt, cotton pajama bottoms and ruffled hair—figured out I was not currently in danger. His face quickly went from an expression of concern to one of relief as he exhaled a big breath.
“Ronny, I’m so sorry I––” I began as he interrupted my apology by quickly stepping his tall body past mine inside the apartment and then closing and locking the door.
“I’m just glad you’re alive and okay,” he responded, hastily checking the peephole in the door and putting the sliding chain on. He had on his paramedic uniform, complete with the hospital logo jacket, a stethoscope and the purple-handled bandage scissors we use quite a few times during a shift.
“You know it’s not like me to oversleep like that. I guess I was just worn out from all those extra shifts, plus I thought I was coming down with a cold last night,” I went on without pausing. It hadn’t even registered in my head that he might just call first. Then I thought about the answering machine.
“Oh crap! I bet Barb called me and she’s gonna be pissed I didn’t answer,” I rambled on as I walked through the medium-sized living room to the kitchen counter where the answering machine was. Ronny started talking again, calmly, in his usual but-now hurried monotone fashion. I didn’t hear a word he said until I saw the large red zero on the machine. I turned around to look at Ronny, who still stood only a few feet from the entryway. It definitely was not like our supervisor Barb Goodwin to not call someone when they were fifteen or thirty minutes late––let alone three and half hours. If anyone kept perfect time and knew where people should be, it was Barb.
“She hasn’t even called? What’s got her so distracted?” If I was lucky maybe she had an early-morning meeting and didn’t notice my not showing up.
“Seanna, you haven’t heard what’s going on? Even right outside, there is total panic. Someone was going after people trying to leave in a minivan when I was coming in your building. People everywhere are getting attacked.” He looked toward the floor as if to reflect.
In the same instant, he and I both rushed toward the living room; Ronny going directly for the manual switch to the television, while I went for the remote control on the end table. As he turned the television set on, I heard more unfamiliar screams outside.
My small kitchen window, overlooking the parking lot, big enough for about twenty-five cars- revealed quite a bit of uproar. Several of my neighbors were carrying hampers and bags, loading them into their cars as if they were fleeing a hurricane. I’d imagine in those containers were only the things they cherished and absolutely needed. Things like medications, toothbrushes, deodorant and clothing items- along with diapers and toys if you had children, as was the case for the Mercado family who were also rushing to leave in a hurry. They lived right below me on the first floor and had three small children, all of whom were present outside as their mother Francesca quickly opened the back door to their sedan and placed the youngest into the car seat while the other two climbed in as fast as they could from the same side. The youngest child was crying inconsolably as he was being buckled in. Manuel, their father and husband was at the very back of the car putting items in the trun
k when he leaned over and said something to Francesca. Although they were in a hurry, this all seemed normal and I still couldn’t figure out what all the panic Ronny described was about. He was watching an anchorman talking. Out of the window, another couple from the first floor quickly seated themselves in their hatchback and took off as well.
“Can you turn it up a little? I can’t hear what they are saying,” I said over my shoulder as I kept an eye on the parking lot. Both Manuel and Francesca were both at the back of the car now loading the rest of the items. They both kept looking over their shoulders every few seconds or so.
“I can’t. I’m worried someone might hear the TV. I think they are attracted to loud noises,” Ronny said in a low tone. “What’s attracted to loud noises?” I said, probably louder than I should have. Right then, a man came into my window view, stumbling slowly. I live on the second floor and he was at least fifty feet from the nearest car but I could see the blood covering most of his clothing from where I was. His face was dull and listless and it didn’t even appear that he was focused on any particular thing. He picked up his pace toward the Mercados. I’d seen this look a hundred times before in my line of work but I had to squint to verify what I was seeing. This poor guy had the look of the dying and the dead. In those few seconds I couldn’t tell if the blood was his own or someone else’s but by the way he was walking, he definitely had some sort of injury. As I spoke over my shoulder––“Ronny, you gotta see this man, he’s hurt pretty bad.” Francesca Mercado saw him too and screamed as Manuel gave her a push that clearly suggested she get in the car. She took the few quick steps to get to the passenger door as Manuel threw the last bag in the trunk, slammed it closed and darted to the driver’s seat with keys in hand. The staggering man just reached the back of the car and started grabbing at the back window where their children were sitting. I could see them scream as Manuel turned the ignition on, barely waiting for the engine to turn over before putting it in gear. The car jerked and skidded off as he made a U-turn to get out of the lot. The man stretched forward to go after the car but was distracted by another woman’s screams as she caught sight of him. He went toward her then, staggering even more quickly.
“Oh my God, I think that man just tried to attack my neighbors,” was all I could mutter. Ronny got up from the television and came to look out of the window with me. I was a little dumbfounded but Ronny grabbed my arm to divert my attention. “Seanna, you need to take a look at the TV.” As I walked back toward the TV, he headed to the front door and looked through the peephole for a few seconds. What I saw on the TV for those few minutes confirmed that humanity had changed forever. Two news anchors who regularly broadcasted from the local Philadelphia news station and two other men who were some sort of officials were describing a “pandemic outbreak of epic proportions, affecting many individuals both locally and throughout the east coast where the event is assumed to have originated.” There were also reports of similar incidences in neighboring states and as far away as Chicago and St. Louis but the officials reiterated several times that they were still unconfirmed. Across the bottom of the screen there was a simultaneous message that read:
“ATTENTION PA RESIDENTS: THERE HAVE BEEN A SERIES OF INCIDENTS IN THIS AREA REQUIRING THE QUARANTINE OF SOME METROPOLITAN AREAS AND THE CONTAINMENT OF INDIVIDUALS DISPLAYING CERTAIN SYMPTOMS. LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICIALS ARE INSTRUCTING PEOPLE TO REMAIN CALM, STAY INDOORS, RESTRICT TRAVEL TO AND FROM THE COUNTIES AND CITIES LISTED AT THE END OF THIS MESSAGE. OFFICIALS ARE ALSO INSTRUCTING PEOPLE TO CALL 9-1-1 IF YOU WITNESS ANYONE BEING ATTACKED OR DISPLAYING UNUSUAL BEHAVIORS ESPECIALLY IF THEY HAVE RECENTLY VISITED ANY OF THESE COUNTIES.”
Numerous times, the anchors had to mention that the images were graphic and warned the viewing public to keep children away from the TV because there was no editing done to the footage we were seeing. Apparently the outbreak had been going on elsewhere since at least yesterday evening because there was footage, some amateur and some professional, of obviously dead individuals enraged, chasing and attacking people. They were also giving out information regarding official actions that were being taken by police and military units in order to keep people safe and to restore order. Minutes later they added that the first reports were about questionable individuals two nights ago outside of Washington, D.C. and how those individuals couldn’t be found and that cause of this outbreak had not yet been determined. Most attempts at stopping the attack were unsuccessful because no one knew how to combat whatever was causing it. Whole police units were missing and the death toll among the general public was estimated to be in the hundreds or thousands by now— and those were conservative numbers.
Apparently some officers had been successful in taking down a few affected subjects and initial examinations were completed with more testing to follow. A few captured, seemingly “alive” were found to be clinically dead. Though, if they had no pulse or blood pressure and a body temperature that was warm, though not the standard 98.6, how could they be dead also? The officials being interviewed said these individuals had to be restrained at all times or else all they would do was attack until the victims were dead.
“That’s about all they’ve been saying for the last couple of hours. There’s really nothing new so far,” Ronny said rather quickly, breaking me from my silent, shocked stupor.
“I had no idea this was happening. What’s Cedar Crest doing about all of this?” I asked, referring to the hospital that we worked for.
“Well my dear, you managed to clock out before the start of all the chaos in our neck of the woods. As soon as you and I finished our shift yesterday afternoon, that’s when the hospital started getting infected patients. They went on full lockdown at seven this morning after there were massive reports overnight of injuries downtown. The night shift was overrun with them. The same thing happened at Muhlenberg because they picked up the slack.”
I was shocked because I’d stayed past our shift till almost seven thirty because it was Thursday night––since some people like to get their weekend started earlier, we were expecting there would be a few more calls; hence my overtime opportunity. Ronny saw me reliving my four hours of overtime in my head, looking for clues. I interrupted him before he could say anything more.
“There wasn’t anything weird yesterday at the hospital or on the streets. Rachel and I did two transports over to Easton and I was done at seven thirty, home by eight,” I told him, as if that would make it better. I started going back over the specifics because in my mind there had to be some sort of clue that something like this was happening. I looked over at the kitchen window as I heard more glass breaking and yelling. I was surprised by the lack of sirens signifying help was on the way.
“Where’s Deanna and the kids? Are they okay?” I asked him.
“They are safe. She’s about as shocked as you and everyone else is about all of this. I talked to her right after the hospital locked down. I told her to pack up and leave, and I’ll meet them at her parents’ house in Pittston. We think it should be safer out there with fewer people around. They should almost be there by now; she’ll text me soon as they get there.” He sounded a little more optimistic.
I thought then about my own folks, my younger brother and Graham. My brother and parents, Ivy and Jackson Sr., still live in Philadelphia and from what I’d heard over the news it was pretty bad over that way. My father is from England originally and was in his last year of service with Her Majesty’s Armed Forces after graduating from the University of London when he met my mother while she was studying abroad through Rutgers University. When I asked her years ago about how and why she ended up across the pond in England, she told me that she wasn’t up to trying out the few years of French she’d learned in high school and that a year of college in England still seemed exciting, yet a little less foreign than other countries. She always said she was grateful for the opportunity to study there and besides I should be glad of it because it was the reason my brother and I are here. She and my father,
who I think come from opposite sides of the tracks, aside from being different races and nationalities, are nevertheless a good match for each other because other than their children, they put nothing else above their relationship––plus they are too darn considerate of each other. I’m sure my grandparents on both sides wanted to be sure if they were right for each other. Both had to pass the test of meeting each other’s families. Something tells me though if they were anything like they are now, once you see them together, it would be plain heartless not to root for their kind of love. I was told the story of how they met and it was fate. I understood too how, once you see the same person at a few different locations, the mall, the train, local bar and café, over a few weeks you can’t help but think they are either stalking you or maybe you should strike up a conversation. My mother was just gorgeous anyways with her smooth, caramel skin tone, naturally long hair and perfect smile. I’m sure my father couldn’t help but notice her. When he saw her for the fourth or fifth time, finally, at a library, he approached her first after a few casual strolls in passing, struck up a conversation and soon after they hung out a few times. They both were nervous about a biracial relationship because neither one had ever experienced such but the apprehension faded quickly. When my mother’s second semester was over she decided she couldn’t leave him without the promise of a future together and my father answered her both verbally and by sending flowers to her parent’s home that were delivered by the time she got off the plane and to their doorstep in Jersey City. My father applied for a visa and was in the U.S. six months later. They soon married and settled in Camden, NJ, where his older brother, Lloyd, was a doctor already living nearby and establishing his career in biomedical research. A year after my mother graduated from Rutgers she got a job working as a communications assistant; two years later, I was born. My brother, Jackson Jr., was born two years after me.
Affliction Page 1
