“What’s your health history? Like pretend I’m a doctor or a nurse that you’re visiting for the first time and I asked you for an oral history of your medical background. What would you say?” Margie closed her eyes to listen to Kelsey’s answer. She needed paper and a pen to take notes, but with no other distractions, this would have to do.
The woman thought for a moment and then replied, “I’ve had your standard partial vaccinations. I wasn’t run through the whole gamut of boosters and stuff because my dad said one was enough. I had chickenpox at four years old and measles at seven.” Kelsey laughed with melancholy. “When I got the chickenpox, my mom called all the neighborhood moms and let them know I had the chickenpox. If they wanted to send their kids over to get exposed, they had to promise to help watch me during the summer while she worked her shift at the hotel. She even had a chart of IOUs.” Kelsey shook her head, fondness strong in her tone. “My mom pimped out my germs, man.”
Cady joined in the laughter and then waited for Kelsey to continue. “I’ve had multiple breaks in my arm, legs, and wrist. I broke some ribs when I went to that Woodstock revival thing. It sucked, by the way.” She cleared her throat and paused, thinking, then started up again. “Oh, I got my first bout of shingles when I was forty-one. Believe it or not. It’s impossible, I know, since I’ve turned twenty-nine for the last fifteen birthdays or so.”
Chuckling Margie quirked her eyebrow at the mention of the last disease. “Shingles?”
“Yeah, horrible buggers. I’m just getting over an attack now. That’s why I’ve been flooding my system with vitamin C and immunity boosters.” She waved her arm in the air above her side, the movement odd looking in the dark. “A whole section on my side. At least it wasn’t on my face this time. The last one hurt so bad.”
“I get them, too. I finished my most recent bout a few weeks ago. The stress from my husband’s cancer prognosis wore on me a long time.” Margie thought hard about what Kelsey and Margie had in common. Cady had mentioned varicella and shingles could be exactly what it was based off of, or, if not directly correlated, then shingles could be related. Could it be beneficial to have had shingles or the chickenpox? Would those antibodies help with the development of more or of the staving off of the worst parts of the disease?
Margie needed time to process the information, but she also needed to talk to someone who would be able to break down the scientific aspects of the virus and the antibody production process. Why hadn’t she thought of reaching out sooner? The medical mystery pulled her mind off David’s death and she finally grabbed onto the goal with psychotic intention. She half-sat up and glanced at Kelsey. “You wouldn’t happen to have a working landline here, would you?”
Chapter 19
D.C.
The phone rang as Tom Shilling rolled toward his wife. Her breathing had been labored the night before and he was glad to hear the rattling had stopped. The virus that was taking over the world had invaded their home as well, despite every precaution, and Tom was sick of the reports. It would be nice to get back to normal.
Except… Her breathing had stopped altogether. Tom had no idea when and his own chest heaved as he rolled back from her still form. Swallowing, he sat up, clamoring for the ringing phone with aching hands and creaking elbows. He licked his lips, his eyes dry. “Yes.” He forced himself to be who he had to be instead of the grieving husband he wanted to be.
“Mr. Vice-Presi… I’m sorry, I mean, Mr. President. I spoke with the head of the CDC facilities and their vaults are reportedly intact, sir. All diseases have been reported in-tank. None got out. There was a breach in the smallpox sector of the facility in Atlanta twelve years ago, but they thought they caught the suspect. They reported the incident to the last administration, who decided to continue working with Ebola development and ignore any mention of smallpox to avoid a panic. The information on the location of that missing tube is classified and I can’t get in. They were decidedly closed mouth about it. Those who were there. It could be possible, sir, that the people who know aren’t even… available anymore.” The Chief-of-Staff was pragmatic and goal-oriented, even in the face of such disaster. He’d been a top choice for his position and Tom was glad he’d been appointed.
Tom sighed, careful to pull the collar of his t-shirt softly over his neck. The rash had started three days before and the pox were getting heads. His wife’s pox had developed and burst in less than a day.
Tom dragged his legs to the edge of the bed and dropped his feet to the plush carpeted floor. “What about this Cure?” Was there any hope? He’d wanted to try it, but the advisory council had refused him access since the ointment may or may not be associated with the President’s death, and the Attorney General’s death, and the Prime Minister’s death in Great Britain.
The Chief-of-Staff was the last man standing as most of the American cabinet had gone MIA with the illness. He cleared his throat. “I would advise you not to take it, sir. There are concentrated toxins from urtica ferox with some genetic modification in the ointment. Mortality is stated at 98% so far. Those statistics are obviously skewed. We can’t get any reliable sources of information. There is also no way to warn people from using it, since there are so many who have reported its initial relief from the pain.” He paused, then asked softly, “How is your wife, sir?”
“Um, she’s… she’s not in pain anymore. Thank you.” Her loss would haunt Tom, but he had other things to worry about. The constant pain could be mind-altering. He understood the desperation for relief and the need to take whatever might offer even the slightest amount of relief. He clamped his eyes shut and then tiredly reopened them to face more. “What about international reports?”
“Well, sir, Europe is black. Australia is still online, but only at about thirty-five percent. They tested the ointment before it got through customs and refused it because of the urtica ferox toxin present.” Papers rustled in the background as he checked his notes.
Tom couldn’t even imagine touching paper right then. His nerves felt swollen and overly engaged. He licked his lips. “What is this urtica… what is it?”
“New Zealand pine needle, sir. I’m not going to lie. It’s pretty horrible. The stories I’ve been able to look up on the internet aren’t good.” He seemed to relish the research and the job of deducing how to minimize the loss and get the world back on its feet.
Tom lifted his gaze and stared at a fleur de lis pattern in the curtain to his bedroom window. His wife’s call since she decorated. “Is this Australia’s way of attacking us? Have they conducted World War Three without ever dropping a bomb or shooting a bullet? Did they send this out to devastate the world?” Tom swallowed, an act that was becoming increasingly harder to complete. He was too tired to even be truly upset at the Australian government. He sat beside his dead wife. The pox was taking over his body. He didn’t have much that he really cared about, but he was still enough of himself to try.
“I don’t believe so, sir. The Cure has a name of CJ180d part B. The virus might be part A. China has gone black, well, almost all of Asia has.” The sound of a more frantic rustling of papers in the background was accompanied by the scratching of a pen on the paper as he wrote. “Southern Africa, South America, and Mexico are partially out. So far, sir, about down to twenty percent… alive, but that number is dropping. I haven’t been able to get ahold of the Prime Minister or anyone in his cabinet from Canada. I’ll report as soon as I’m able.” The man was a good one, but even he sounded tired.
“Is there any way to survive it? What scientists are on this?” Tom didn’t even want to survive it. There wasn’t going to be much of a government to lead when all the population was dead or rogue. He wasn’t even on the history books as the last president of the United States because the people who made records of that kind of thing were dead or dying when he’d taken office. Only three people had sworn him in and it had been in the bathroom with his bathrobe on.
“Sir, there are no more scientists. They’re
all dead.” The Chief-of-Staff had nothing left to report and his deadpan delivery of the worst punchline in the history of the United States lingered on the line.
“Understood.” Tom hung up without fanfare. What was the point in wasting their breath on things they already knew? The Chief-of-Staff would call if he had time, energy, and information.
Tom would answer, if he was still alive. They were just passing information along at that point. There was no one left to do anything with the information they did get. Tom couldn’t send the military anywhere. His legs were pulled out from under him and he had no power to stand on.
He leaned back, laying his head on his pillow. Reaching across the short distance of their sheets, Tom touched his wife’s cold back with the knuckles of his hand. He closed his eyes. “I should be dead with you.”
The world had been begging for a reset. Someone had created the button and pushed it. Now the world had to deal with the consequences of what they’d wished for.
Chapter 20
Jackson
The town of Clinton loomed before Jackson as he barreled down the hill and onto the main street. Through the smallest downtown he’d ever seen which consisted of ten buildings and a motel on the end, Jackson couldn’t think about where he was running to just what he was running from.
The size of the town had been a positive trait that had pulled Jackson off the freeway, but had since turned into a negative aspect he wasn’t sure he’d survive. The size of the town would limit his options. He only had the small motel to lock himself into. Would he be able to get in a room? What exactly was he up against? How many people were already sick or dying? The office could very well be closed and Jackson needed a door he could lock. If he broke down the door, he’d never be able to relock it.
Sunlight sun worked its way down through the early morning. Heat wouldn’t be welcome since it would spread the ointment across his skin, even the smallest particles would leech into the fine lines and give the toxins more surface area to soak into.
Jackson controlled his breathing, but he wanted to run and gasp and jump into the river that ran parallel to the town’s oblong shape.
Quiet as if abandoned, the streets running away from the Main Street looked like alleyways with a random car left here or there. The lights were off in the buildings and even the business at the end, across from the motel, with its sign declaring it a saloon was completely dark. The windows had been smashed out and glass littered the walkway. A glimpse of a hand resting limply on the edge of the windowsill startled Jackson. That wasn’t what he’d expected.
His memory was triggered from the evening before when he’d arrived at the ranch. He should have left before going in. He should have… what? Stopped his plans? No. He wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to be afraid of something he created, something he modified. He knew what the dangers were. He knew what the possibilities had been.
Jackson was just mad that he hadn’t been prepared for it. Why hadn’t he thought it out? He should have left before they returned with the Cure. He knew better. Murphy’s Law was the only thing that he hadn’t accounted for.
He slammed his palm into the top of the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. Come on. He knew better. His ego had gotten in the way and he’d been more interested in seeing the cowboys get their karmic payback rather than thinking clearly.
Parking as close to the front of the motel as he could without actually being in the building, Jackson grimaced. There was a lot he still had to do and not a lot of time to do it.
Climbing from the cab, Jackson winced at the sting of a chilly breeze across his hyperaware flesh. Was that a construct of the toxins? Or was he overly aware because he knew he was infected? His wounds would weaken him and he would have to take that into consideration as he prepared to hunker down. He stared morosely at the tops of the pines swaying in the wind, capturing the sunlight trying to get to the ground. Maybe the rays were trying to get him.
Jackson shook himself back to action. Grabbing the backpack, he pulled the guns from the pockets and tucked them under the front seat. He didn’t need the option of guns nearby when he locked himself in whatever room he could get into. When he went crazy, he didn’t want to actually kill himself – even if he did at the time. The urtica ferox worked by hemorrhaging the sick or weak.
Jackson wasn’t sick or weak. Okay, he might be weak since he hadn’t slept or eaten properly since his beating which had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. He had to have faith he could pull out of it, or everything he’d been able to do would have been in vain.
The amount of toxin he’d absorbed wouldn’t be much relative to the amount other people were exposing themselves to, but he had enough he would feel it.
And maybe not survive it.
Swinging the pack to his shoulder, he crossed the few feet from his truck to the front doors. He glanced around as if someone might try to approach him, but who would? There weren’t many left alive to terrorize others. Not to mention, he wasn’t in the mood. He didn’t need a gun to snap a neck.
Pushing through the double doors to the motel, Jackson searched the ratty interior with its dark vending machine and worn carpet. Was there anything he could use? He didn’t expect anyone to be there and he wasn’t wrong. He lowered his bag and moved to stand in front of the vending machine.
For once, there were offerings of drink and snacks. Not just candy either. He could get on board with that. Looking around, he sighed. No bigger objects to smash the glass with? Really? Like they thought someone was going to steal stuff.
Jackson stepped back, half-squatted, and then thrust himself forward, lifting the back leg in a front kick and impacting with his heel. The glass shattered and Jackson shook off the glass pieces. He picked his bag back up and opened the top. Removing the weapons had left him with a little room and he loaded it with pretzels, peanut butter crackers, nuts, trail mix, and as many bottles of water that he could.
He glanced at the spot on his hand as if he could see the clear ointment. There was no going back. He was trapped in a mess of his own making.
Clicking the top shut on the pack, he stood and swung it back onto his shoulder. His boot scuffed the floor as he walked. Was he getting weaker? He didn’t feel weak yet, but he wasn’t sure. The toxins would mess with him neurologically. He didn’t need that. He needed to lock himself away and just suffer through it.
Approaching the counter, he chewed on his bottom lip. The place wasn’t upscale enough to have a digital locking system in use. They would have keys, but where would they be? He rounded the counter and located the room keys hanging on small brass hooks behind the counter. Plastic blue diamond key chains dangled from each hook with a gold number for the key.
They couldn’t make things easier, could they? Well, they could have at least had the decency to stick around and help him get his bag into the room and pick up the vending machine mess.
Jackson curved his lips at his attempt at humor. Loneliness was going to be more of a problem then he’d thought. There wasn’t even a random stranger to make comments to. He didn’t have his email to talk to Cady and, he was embarrassed by the admission, but he just wanted to get to her. She could take care of him. She would, wouldn’t she?
A headache was growing in the back portion of his head. He didn’t have time to sit around wishing for things to be different. Grabbing the number three key, he didn’t waste time inspecting the hallways. He rushed to find the door with a three on it.
Being on the bottom floor was even better. If he tried jumping from the catwalk, he’d end up hurting himself and not dying which would be even worse.
One thing Jackson wouldn’t accept was failure. Even failing at suicide wasn’t an option.
Letting himself inside, Jackson slammed the door shut and locked the door knob, then the chain lock above that. He glanced around, grabbing for the nightstand sitting beside the bed. Wiggling the heavy piece across the floor, Jackson moved it into place in front of the
door. He would only be able to get out, if he was strong enough to move the stand.
He turned to the room, panting from working so hard. Using his unaffected hand, he wiped at his brow. Nothing was there. Was he already hallucinating? The worst thing was that he wouldn’t know when he was hallucinating and when he wasn’t.
The room’s less than ostentatious presentation didn’t bother Jackson. He shuddered as the chill of the empty room seeped into his bones. No sunlight got into the room through the windows and it didn’t seem anyone had been inside in a while.
Since the electricity was still on, Jackson flipped on the thermostat, engaging the heater which blew even colder air for a few minutes. Jackson shuddered as he closed his eyes and waited for the heat. He had to be warm. He couldn’t focus.
Once the heat started coming out, Jackson returned to the door to double check the locks. Looking at the nightstand, he was glad to have a plan in place there. But the window would take no effort at all to get through. He shook his head and strained to push the dresser in front of the large window to block that way in or out.
Too Late: an apocalyptic survival thriller (180 Days and Counting... series Book 4) Page 11
