Influenza: Viral Virulence

by Ohliger, Steven

  Using the night-vision binoculars, Lorie watched him move down the alley until he disappeared around a corner and out of sight. Lowering the binoculars, Lorie reached over and started petting Sandy. “Don’t worry, Sandy. He’ll be fine,” she said to the dog, but she was really trying to calm her own frayed nerves.

  Michael made his way slowly from alley to alley, pausing at each street opening and using the night vision to make sure that all directions were clear. If the thugs were as organized as Zach at the armory had warned, they would probably be patrolling the area. So far, he hadn’t seen a soul except for the two guards at the bridge.

  Using the scope, he cautiously continued down the maze of alleys. He avoided trash and the great number of bottles and cans that had been discarded on the pavement. He was afraid that any noise would give away his position. Then, he would be dead, and Lorie would have no place to go. He knew they were taking a big risk with this plan of action, and he briefly thought that maybe they should turn away and try another route.

  Eventually, he came to the point where he had been the other night. The Plymouth was still there. He checked his watch and saw that it was close to two o’clock. The street sloped down directly toward the gas station. The lights at the station were still on, and he could hear the sound of the generator humming. Tonight, everything looked quiet at the station.

  He swept the street with the scope once more and made sure that no one was lying in ambush. There shouldn’t be anybody, he rationalized. No one should know they were there. Krank and his gang of thugs didn’t even know that he and Lorie existed. But after tonight, they would.

  He darted across the dark street and ducked behind the old Plymouth. He opened the car door, and then, retrieving cord from his backpack, he tied one end to the steering wheel. With nothing on the door to tie the other end to, he ran the cord out the window, around the windshield, and through the passenger’s side window. Pulling it as tight as he could, Michael tied the end of the rope to the other side of the steering wheel. He tested the wheel by trying to turn it one way and then the other. It gave a little, but not too much. The rope held it in place. The car should travel in a straight line. Satisfied with his work, Michael looked up and down the street once again.

  He ducked down and made his way around the car until he was directly in front of it. Laying his backpack on the gritty asphalt, he got out the bottles of gas/oil mixture and tied them to the front bumper using the bungee cord. It took some time to get the bottles tight so they wouldn’t accidentally slip off. The last thing he needed was for one of them to break prematurely and alert the gang to their presence.

  He then got into the driver’s seat and moved the gear shift from park to neutral. The Plymouth didn’t move. Getting back out of the car, Michael leaned and began to push. The wheels finally started to turn. He immediately jumped back into the driver’s seat and let the car coast out into the middle of the street, where he stopped it and put the emergency brake on.

  Well, this is it, he thought. There was no turning back. Gathering up his courage, Michael again went to the front of the car and lit the alcohol-soaked bottle wicks. If anyone happened to be in the gas station area and looked up the street, they might be able to see the tiny flames.

  He quickly ran around and got behind the wheel once again. Taking the emergency brake off, Michael steered the car straight down the middle of the road. The Plymouth gained momentum as it went downhill. Michael stayed behind the wheel as long as he dared. But as the car continued to pick up speed, he had to jump out while he still could without being hurt.

  He ran to the sidewalk and watched as the Plymouth continued to plunge downhill. This might just work, he thought as he mentally crossed his fingers. With every second, the car traveled closer and closer to the station. As it kept speeding directly toward the gas station, Michael smiled. His plan was starting to work.

  The car reached the street that ran perpendicular to the gas station and raced across. Then, the wheels hit the curb as it sped toward the pile of abandoned cars. To Michael’s horror, instead of going straight toward the abandoned cars as he wanted it to, the Plymouth suddenly veered off to the left. Hitting the curb had somehow altered its course. It rolled across the station and was heading directly toward the large, shiny tanker truck.

  “Oh, no,” Michael gasped. He turned and sprinted down the nearest alley.

  He heard a large wumpff, and the air pressure increased drastically around him. Almost immediately, the area lit up. It seemed like the sky was on fire. Running down the alley as fast as he could, he heard loud explosions going off behind him. Someone screamed in the distance, and he heard voices shouting in alarm. Another explosion followed. More screams were followed by more shouting.

  He continued running and finally made his way back to the bridge area. As he had hoped, the explosions had drawn the two guards away from their post. Using the last of his energy, he ran down the street to the yellow bus. Without even bothering to look to see if he had been noticed, Michael jumped through the open bus door. He went directly to the driver’s seat; thankfully, the key was in the ignition. He turned the key, and the diesel engine roared to life. He prayed that the sound of the bus engine was drowned out by the ongoing chaos back at the gas station.

  Looking out the front window, he could see the fire raging a couple of blocks away. It was a lot larger than he had originally planned. Figures silhouetted by the flames were frantically running back and forth. So far, no one had noticed him.

  He hated driving stick-shift cars. The only thing he hated more than driving a stick was driving large, commercial vehicles with manual transmissions, like this hideous yellow bus. Pushing down the clutch, he tried to move the large gearshift into reverse. It resisted him, and he heard the grinding of gears as he forced it backward.

  He saw a brief flash of dark green as Lorie drove his truck through the opening he had just made. The plan was that Lorie would drive the truck through, stop, and pick him up. Then, they would drive over the bridge to safety on the other side. Breathing a short-lived sigh of relief, Michael moved the bus gear from reverse to drive.

  Trying to let the clutch up while pressing down on the gas, he felt the bus lurch, and then it immediately stalled. Frantic, he turned the ignition again. It wouldn’t start. The engine didn’t turn over. He tried pumping the gas, but the bus still didn’t roar to life.

  Looking out the side window, he saw Lorie waiting in the truck for him. It seemed there was no such thing as a perfect plan. First, the car jumped off course and hit the tanker. Now, the bus wouldn’t start.

  He looked up and saw that one of the thugs at the gas station was yelling and pointing in his direction. Michael was running out of time. He pumped the gas petal once more and turned the key. No response. Catching Lorie’s eye, he waved her on.

  She looked like she was about to protest, but Michael aggressively waved his hands. “Go on!” he yelled. “I’ll catch up!”

  Extremely upset, Lorie turned and started to drive across the bridge.

  Again, Michael turned the key in the ignition. The engine came to life. This time, he over-revved it while letting up on the clutch. The bus jerked forward but, thankfully, didn’t stall. Looking outside, he noticed that numerous people were racing in his direction from the station. Krank was leading the charge.

  Once the bus closed the gap, Michael cut the engine and took the keys out of the ignition. As bullets started ricocheting off the metal chassis, he crawled out of the driver’s seat. He bent over to take full advantage of the minimal protection the seats offered him from the bullets.

  The only exits out of the bus were the front door and the emergency rear exit. Neither way was a direction that Michael wanted to go. He slid between the seats on the Kentucky-facing side of the bus and struggled to open the stubborn window. With the increasing number of bullets flying by him, he squeezed his body out of the window and fell ungracefully to the asphalt pavement.

  He heard cursing and s
houting drawing closer to the Ohio side of the bus. In one last act to make sure that the bus would continue to block their escape, Michael lit the wick on the remaining Molotov cocktail. He tossed it through the open bus window in the direction of the driver’s seat. As the bottle broke, the inside of the bus suddenly erupted into flames.

  He had effectively disabled the bus, as he had hoped. No one was going to get on that bus for some time. They wouldn’t be able to move it and pursue them. He had the key. And they couldn’t get inside to shift the bus out of gear to roll it, not until the flames died down.

  As he ran across the bridge, he heard even more cursing coming from the other side of the bus.

  He and Lorie had done it! They had broken through the barrier, and the Kentucky National Guard was just at the other end of the bridge. Starting to run out of breath, he slowed to a jog. His pickup truck wasn’t in sight. As instructed, Lorie had driven to the other side to safety. Within a few minutes, Michael would be joining her triumphantly.

  A bullet ricocheted off the pavement just to his left. Glancing over his shoulder, Michael saw a couple of the thugs firing at him. They had climbed on top of the cars on either side of the burning bus. Michael sprinted, weaving left and right so no one could get a clear shot at him. A few more bullets ripped through the air, but none found a target. Up ahead, he spotted an abandoned car to his right.

  Using the last bit of energy left within him, Michael bolted to the car and rolled up behind it, putting the car between himself and the shooters. Crouching down behind the automobile, he tried to catch his breath. Unless the thugs were extremely accurate or extremely lucky, they wouldn’t be able to shoot him hiding behind the car.

  Breathing heavily, Michael looked to his left. Sitting approximately ten feet away on his left was a large, metal can. He hadn’t noticed it when he was running for the car, and he couldn’t make out what it was. The flickering light from the burning bus was not enough to illuminate it. Puzzled, he thought it was a strange object to have sitting right in the middle of the road. A shot rang harmlessly off the pavement by the can.

  As the fire from the burning bus started to die down, Michael reached into his pack and pulled out the night-vision goggles. Focusing on the can, he saw that it was a fifty-gallon gas drum. Realization finally dawned on him as another shot hit the pavement near the can. These gas cans had been strategically placed by the gang members as a countermeasure for any attack from the Kentucky National Guard. They were gas bombs that could be set off with a simple rifle shot. The resultant explosion would kill anyone within range.

  He had to move. Jumping to his feet, Michael heard another rifle shot being fired from behind him. He ran as fast as he could down the bridge, away from the car and gas can. Another rifle shot. He kept running to put distance between himself and the homemade bomb. Yet another rifle shot cracked.

  He heard the explosion behind him and felt an unbearable heat on his back. At the same time, his body was lifted off the pavement by the blast, and he was flung violently forward through the air. In what appeared to be slow motion, he was hurled directly into the side of another vehicle. On impact with the unforgiving metal, every nerve in his body screamed in blind pain, and his mind went numb as he crumpled to the asphalt.

  He opened his eyes, but everything was blurry and disoriented. His ears didn’t register any sound over the high-pitched ringing. Trying to crawl on his hands and knees, he had no idea which direction to go. He collapsed on the hard pavement. In his disoriented world of confusion, he saw a set of intense, white lights appear and grow larger and brighter. Somewhere in some still-functioning part of his mind, he recognized them as the headlights of a vehicle. The world started to swim before his eyes, and he felt like he was going to throw up. He must have blacked out, because the next thing he remembered was feeling hands under his arms trying to lift him up. And then, everything faded to black once again.

  Krank remained standing on top of the ruined car. The fifty-caliber sniper rifle that he had just fired was still in his hands. The body of his inept sharpshooter was lying at his feet. After three missed shots, he had let his drug-induced anger gain control, and he had broken the sharpshooter’s neck, snapped it like a twig. Taking the gun from the lifeless body, Krank himself had shot the gasoline bomb on his first attempt. Holding the sniper rifle triumphantly above his head, he spat on the motionless body.

  “No one can mess with King Krank,” he smirked. For a moment he had even forgotten about the searing pain on his face. But he didn’t forget about the body of his woman lying dead back at the gas station. She had been one of the casualties of the exploding tanker truck. He wished the kid who did it was alive. He wanted to rip the skin from his body piece by piece and eat it in front of his dying eyes. As he watched the diminishing fire from the gasoline bomb in the middle of the bridge, he lowered the sniper rifle. Then, he rubbed his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  With growing rage, he watched that blasted green truck return and pick up the body of the kid that should have been blown to pieces. He reached up and touched his blood-soaked cheek. The gash on his face was a result of shrapnel from the exploding gasoline truck. His eyebrows were singed from the fiery blast. But high on meth, Krank hadn’t felt anything except for the seething anger burning inside him.

  Shaking his fist at the truck, he screamed curses at the top of his lungs and vowed that he would utterly destroy the kid and whoever was driving the truck. Maybe he would cut them up just enough so they were barely alive and then burn them inside that forsaken vehicle. He kicked the sharpshooter’s body, and it rolled off the top of the car and thudded on the pavement below. He hoped the stupid kid wasn’t dead yet, because he wanted to make him suffer for a long time before he finally killed him.

  Chapter 32

  Michael was back under the water again. This time, he felt he was running out of air. The current was starting to win, despite his constant struggle against the downward pull. He was exhausted and about to give up. His hands were still reaching for the surface, but he was beginning to believe that they would never break free of the suffocating water.

  Sandy was watching him from along the bank and barking furiously for someone to help him. But he couldn’t hear Sandy’s barks, nor could anyone hear his frantic screams for help. He was so tired. He wanted to give up. If he would just close his eyes and surrender, he could let the dark undertow take him down into the darkness. Just close your eyes, he thought.

  Suddenly, a hand was thrust into the water, and fingers closed around his hand. Opening his eyes, he looked upward, and Lorie was there reaching for him. She was bending over the water from the bank, pulling him up. With a new vigor rising inside him, Michael struggled hard against the hungry current. Lorie’s hand continued to pull. Finally, his fingers broke the surface of the water. Next, his whole hand and then his arm were above the water. Now, he was out of the water and lying on the bank face up. Lorie was bending over him, smiling. He looked at his rescuer and gratefully returned her smile.

  As he came to, his first sensation was his warm, wet fingers on his right hand. He forced his eyes to open a little, and the sudden influx of light was blinding. His head throbbed like crazy. He could barely make out vague shapes but not any details, as his eyesight was extremely blurred. As his eyes gradually adjusted, he saw Sandy’s happy face. She had propped herself up with her front paws on the cot, and she was licking his exposed right hand like it was a tasty treat.

  “Welcome back,” Lorie said, walking into his field of vision. “You really had me worried there.”

  “I was worried too,” Michael managed to say. His voice sounded strange and different.

  “Shhh, don’t talk. Save your strength,” Lorie instructed him. “And never, ever scare me like that again!”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I told you to save your strength,” she admonished.

  He could tell from her voice that she was more relieved than angry. />
  Lorie ran her fingers through his hair. “I had just reached the other side of the bridge when the explosion happened. I instinctively knew that you were in trouble. Despite the protests from our new friends, the Kentucky National Guard, I drove the truck back as fast as it would go. I almost passed you. I would never have seen you by that wrecked car unless Sandy here hadn’t started barking her head off.”

  She rubbed Sandy’s ears, and Sandy looked proud of herself.

  “Somehow, I got you into the truck…”

  “You picked me up by yourself and put me in the truck?” Michael asked, amazed.

  “Not just me. You half stumbled with me. But you were totally out of it. Once I got you in the truck, I raced back to the Kentucky side of the bridge, and here we are. Oh, and you’re not supposed to get up, according to the squad’s medic. He says you probably got yourself a nice concussion. But otherwise, except for a few minor burns, cuts, and scrapes, he says you should be okay. I told him that you were never okay to begin with, but he didn’t listen to me.” She smiled down at him.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Almost forty-eight hours…”

  “Forty-eight hours!” Michael exclaimed as he tried to sit up. A sudden, crushing pain shot through his head. He cried out in agony and put his hands on his head, as if pressing on it would help relieve the stabbing sensation. He dropped back down onto the pillow.

  “Are you okay?” Lorie asked, suddenly very concerned. “I told you not to move!”

  “No, you told me not to talk.”

  Lorie suddenly bent over and kissed him on the lips.

  Michael, for the first time, had no words. Her lips against his felt so soft and warm. The sensation drowned out any pain that he might have been feeling.

  Sandy whined from the side of the cot.

  “Am I interrupting something?” a new voice asked.

  To Michael’s regret, their lips parted suddenly. He looked in the direction of the man’s voice and saw that someone dressed in full military gear had entered the room. Not knowing much about the ranking system in the armed forces, Michael sensed that this man was in some position of authority. He had straight, dark hair and stood about six feet tall. His nose came to a sharp point over his clean-shaven face. Carrying only a sidearm, the man crossed the room to Michael’s cot and peered down at him.