He placed the box of cartridges on the floor and picked up a paper from the table. His eyes scanned across it and down to the others on the tabletop, they provided a sweeping timeline with the various bold front-page print. Anger and regret swelled in his mind, tears fell as he read what he knew had happened to the world. They were nothing but printed reminders on thin gray paper. Most of the circulated information was wrong in the beginning, assumed truths that proved to be false and often fatal. What reported facts that were accurate arrived too late for many. The officials never reached a solid consensus, most only guessed at the total magnitude of what was happening. The reports became sporadic, troublesome, and reached frightening levels long before the social systems failed. Overwhelmed by the sheer size of the problem, the local governments ordered people to evacuate the larger cities, to make their way into the rural areas. But, the people found no place was safe, not when the virus was airborne.
His shaky hand reached out across the papers and moved them to look at the stories. One by one, he lifted them and read the bold print. ‘Pandemic Spreads Across Europe’ stated one in thick black letters. ‘Thousands Sick’ was on another. He tilled through the papers hunting for the most recent and rested back in the chair to read it. He turned the pages slow as his weary eyes moved across the words.
‘Virus Devastates Globally’ was the headline written above a full-page article. There were no advertisements or pictures. The newspaper was void of any cartoons or opinion pieces, it was just information on the spread of the virus and the planned courses of action. On the last page was a list of security camps, he scrolled them until he saw the one he headed for. He let his fingertip slide across the small printed words Jackson, Mississippi. Seeing it gave him comfort.
The first reports that came in on the nightly news told of the new virus that claimed over a thousand lives in China. His father pointed out to his mother it seemed strange most diseases originated overseas. What followed next left the whole world in shambles. It spread across countries at such an alarming rate that officials ordered the shutdown of their borders. It had no effect at all to stop the expansion.
The papers reported at first that ten million were sickened. It seemed overnight the numbers climbed. Soon there were over two-hundred million believed infected, and the number kept rising. The scientists and doctors scrambled to find a cure, a vaccine, or even a treatment for the symptoms. Afterward, they admitted in hushed talks with each other, it was the perfect form of disease and they had seen nothing like it before. The virus started in the depths of Asia, but it spread across the globe within weeks. It was given the clinical name of CeHV-2 and produced a form of meningoencephalitis with a mortality rate of eighty-five percent. No antibodies were produced within the human population. Early diagnosis was impossible. There were no universal traits or defined conditions of the disease.
Once discovered the virus spread like the flu. All immediate precautions were taken. A time later, they realized the incubation varied anywhere from seventy-two hours to thirty days. The number of infected climbed higher by the day, but soon it was surpassed by the death toll. Public services stopped. Government agencies shut down. Healthcare workers were either infected or killed by those they tried to help. Most citizens refused to leave their homes. Law enforcement struggled to keep order with the ones who did. The nation sank into turmoil as the dark shadow of the virus spread over the country.
People learned close contact with anyone was dangerous. Individuals could not even trust their own family, the closest of friends, or long-time neighbors. The threat of infection was too great. Whole communities rushed to separate themselves in fear. It was not until the electricity stopped that people panicked in earnest. The reality of the new daily life was a quick and horrible change. It left no time for adjustment.
To complicate things further, the virus was slow to produce symptoms. People who had contracted it rarely knew until it was too late to stop them. The worst part was not its ability to be contagious days before the symptoms showed. It was how it would invade a person’s brain, destroying it within days. The virus created the same damage as long-term syphilis and mimicked many of the same effects.
Noted doctors and virologists presented a list of the various conditions associated with the virus, but they only spoke of mood disorders, dementia, and impaired body movement. The actuality was far worse than first conceived, people learned that the outward symptoms had a more malevolent nature to them.
Like any debilitating disease, there were horrific peculiarities that presented themselves in the general population. Some people would become violently enraged, driven to attempt killing loved ones or friends. More often than not, they would succeed. Most would talk about it afterward as though it was only a natural action completed by a rational person.
Others would reduce to a primal condition, rip clothes from their bodies, and wallow in their own filth. They refused to eat or drink and succumbed to the lack of it. Still, others would commit suicide in nontraditional ways by drinking gasoline, eating burning coals, disemboweling themselves or burying their own heads in the ground to asphyxiate.
However, those were the first of the infected. The ones that came later had destruction on their minds as if they answered some higher calling to burn the world down. Fires raged across the landscapes, setting whole cities ablaze, overwhelming everything with no one to stop them. The lure of fire had an effect on many of the sick. They gathered around and stared wide-eyed into the flames. Some would walk into it. Others would stand and wait for the spreading flame to consume them.
By and far, the worst were the people left to self-mutilation. They would remove body parts or insert various objects into their flesh, presenting them as proud trophies. Representing the vast majority of the sick that remained after the first months, the mutilators were aggressive and cunning. An embodiment of the lowest forms of human depravity, they had inherited the earth, and soon the uninfected would be extinct. They were the reason behind Ben’s deepest dread. He was terrified of ending up like them, to roam the earth caught in a deluded nightmare, exploring the numerous ways of altering his flesh.
Ben knew, just the same as everyone else who survived, what some of the beginning signs of the disease were. The infected heard noises no one else could and had strange visions. They often spoke of hearing far-off whispers, or the rustle of leaves, even the chirping of crickets. Most experienced various visual hallucinations of small flashing lights or bright colored spots in the center of their vision. Lined patterns that never faded also seemed to be prominent.
However, those were the ones that a person would get and try to shrug off as their mind playing tricks. Signs it was too late came in the several forms. Loud bursts of noise inside the ears, a menacing laugh of someone unseen, a dead loved one speaking or a constant crackling noise that never faded. The visual symptoms were instant blindness, seeing bright white lights floating in the field of view, extreme nearsightedness, or kaleidoscope colors washing over everything.
People could not be trusted. They were all dangerous. The risks were too high, and the death was too long. The infected were no longer people, they had become something less than human, devolved into demons with corrupted minds. His mother had called them the poor wretched. She believed they could be treated, saved from the sickness, no matter how bad off they were.
You can’t save the wretched when they are already in Hell. That’s what this world is now. It’s Hell.
He thought about his brother. It bothered Ben that Charlie abandoned him. They would have been safer together. He missed him. The thought of his brother finding his own place of peace made him feel better.
I needed you, and you ran away. You said you’d never leave me. You said you’d always protect me. I hope you’re happy.
Ben stood up, tossed the paper back to the table, and lifted the lamp. He walked to the cot and pulled back the thin blanket. He beheld a vision of brass and wood. A lever-action .30-30 rifle lay in th
e middle of the sunken mattress.
Ben lifted it up to inspect it. The weapon felt heavy in his hands. It had been a long time since he held a rifle. He opened the chamber, looked inside at the metal for traces of rust, and emptied the rounds out onto the mattress working the rifle’s lever. As he studied the movement, he wondered why someone would leave behind a good rifle and a box of ammunition. He refilled the loading tube and stuffed the box into his pack along with some of the newspapers.
A quick puff of air and the room filled with the scent of the wick smoldering. He checked one last time at the door to make sure it was locked before he slid under the thin blanket. The thought to get his sleeping bag ran through his mind moments before he drifted into sleep. He woke back up when he smelled the strong scent of wood smoke. Ben sprang back to his feet and searched for the source.
9
Amy’s eyes settled on the naked man. She could tell it was a man by his long beard and body structure. The large, gaping, infected wound at his groin made anatomical distinction impossible.
He was less than five feet from her then, seeming to have materialized from the tall grass. The man stood with his arms held out from his sides. It resembled the act of surrender. Blood covered his face and chest, most of it his own. She realized he held the object that had taken her uncle’s life in his right hand.
He stepped towards her, his scabbed over lips spread open, flesh hung past his jaws from constant clawing at his cheeks. His back teeth were visible from the ripped open spots he had created. A strangled and gurgling pant escaped his throat. It pushed thick strands of blood-tinged saliva from the cheek wounds with each breath. He raised the crowbar past his head. She tried to run from him, but her legs were stiff and uncooperative. Amy stumbled backward and fell to the ground. The smell of the gasoline engulfed her. She heard the glugging sound as it poured from the overturned gas container.
“Hey there.”
The man reached out to her with his left hand. He spoke as if to an old friend, his fingers made a come-hither motion. She recoiled and tried to stand. As her arms thrashed to keep him away, she knocked over her uncle’s shotgun. Amy’s mind raced as she grabbed the gun and pointed it at the man.
Click.
She expected a blast, her body prepared for the force of the shot and yet nothing happened. Numbness crawled up her arms. Her breathing became rapid and wild. Caught in spasms, her own muscles threatened to stop her. She tried to scream, let her parents know, but her voice felt trapped in her throat.
“No, please, God. No.”
“Hey there.” The gasping voice cooed to her.
Amy scooted back from his threatening presence. He came too close. She tried to stand again. Her legs still felt strange and heavy, as if they no longer belonged to her body. The moment it happened she could not say, she vaguely recollected pumping the shotgun, pulling the trigger, and hearing the loud roar of the shot. What stuck with her was the way the old man seemed thrown from her sight. As if he had taken wings and flew backward with his arms collapsed in front of him. The smell of burnt gunpowder mixed with the raw gasoline. She felt the heat of the flames as it ignited.
Seconds passed as she ran to her father. He turned toward her and his gaze lifted up to the plume of black smoke that rose from behind the house. Amy landed into his arms with enough force to shove him into the side of the van. He pulled her back from his chest, grabbed both of her arms, and leaned his head down to see her wide eyes.
“John? Where is your Uncle John?”
She shook her head. Face frozen, she stood in silent shock with her mouth hung open. Her eyes remained unblinking as tears ran her cheeks. Slobber hung from her lip. Breath came in violent heaves of her chest. She pointed back the way she had come with a shaking hand. It was then she realized she was still holding her uncle’s gun.
“It’s all right,” her father said. “Come now.”
He pried the shotgun from her grip and led her to the van door. Her mother pulled her to the seat and slid the door shut as Evan got into the van and drove. Right then and only then did she scream aloud. Her mother grabbed her and held her close. Amy saw her father in the rearview mirror. His eyes red and swollen, tears erupted from them in steady streams.
She saw the road sign they had waited so long to see. It was a large brown metal sign with the words ‘The Natchez Trace Parkway’ on it. An arrow pointing left was supposed to direct the way south toward their salvation. Bittersweet it felt to see it.
The little town was to be the last stop they would need to make. Her father had promised them, ‘Once we get to Mathiston, it’ll all be south, a straight shot. Be there in no time.’ She had never been to the small Mississippi town or even heard of it before he spoke its name, but she felt, in that moment of seeing the sign, that she would always hate it from that day forth. It had taken from her, from them, the only person left to protect the family. Her father was injured and her mother too weak to fight. John was the one who kept them safe, found the food, and killed the bad people.
It had taken so long to reach the highway, the travel had been harder than they expected. They were three months behind. The four-lane highway, littered with various vehicles, most burned or destroyed from wrecks, had made travel difficult. Their way forward was slow, several times blocked by National Guard barricades. Intended to direct traffic, the roadblocks instead caused car pile-ups as people tried to escape in desperation at the beginning.
Amy climbed into the passenger seat beside her father. He drove in stark silence, navigating past the top of a fallen pine tree. His dry and cracked lips pursed with sorrow as he ran his fingertips across the scabbed sores on his furrowed brow. The tears streamed from his eyes and dripped off the scraggly beard he wore. Amy studied the grief on his face and wondered if he regretted coming the way he chose.
The winding exit ended at an intersection. Across the two-lane road stood another sign, decorated with animal carcasses, it gave two directions. North or south, Tupelo or Jackson. Evan slowed only long enough to make the turn to the left, heading for Jackson, Mississippi. This was the moment when they were all supposed to let out a sigh of relief. Instead, they were fighting back mournful tears. Amy looked out the window as she ran all of her father’s promises through her head.
He lied about everything.
He told them they would make it before October, that they would just travel the major highways, and there would be plenty of gas along the way. She felt the biggest lie was that he knew how to get there, it was not until they had traveled too far before he admitted he had never been to Jackson before.
How did he expect to get to a place he has never seen before without a map? Instead, he just had a list of turns and exit numbers. I’ll never forgive him, never. First my brother and now my uncle. He got them killed. Lies and more lies. Every word was a lie.
He did not take his sight from the road, watching the yellow dashes turn into solid lines and back again, his heavy eyelids blinked over sore and tired eyes. Evan drove as fast as the van could go without the unbalanced front wheels shuddering. He wondered how far they could get on the two gallons of gasoline his brother had gotten before it happened. Evan knew he needed to ask Amy about how it happened, what transpired, how she escaped. He also knew nothing could prepare him for the answers. Evan refused to look at Amy, Maggie, or his wife. He did not need to see the anger, the pain they felt, and he did not want to see the blame in their eyes.
His chest hurt. There was a weight that pulled down on his insides, it made it difficult to breathe. He wondered if it was guilt, anguish at the recent loss, or a heart attack. Evan was not sure, but the thought of a sudden heart attack, a momentary pain followed by death, he would accept that with open arms. The truth of it was, he welcomed death, welcomed the end it would offer. He was spent. The long travel and disappointments had sucked the will from him. His oldest child dead, killed by a lunatic in Tuscaloosa, now his brother gone as well, it was too much for him to bear. It was selfish of hi
m, he knew it, wanting to leave his wife and kids to fend for themselves. Evan also knew he was not long for this world anyhow, it was only a matter of time.
The engine missed at first, then it shuddered, and with one final struggle, it died. Evan stared at the gas hand. It showed empty. Now they would have to walk. He let the van coast under its own power for as far as it could. They rolled to a gentle stop. The van’s interior was silent. No one spoke as they sat and waited for Evan to tell them what to do.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry. You have to believe me.”
He reached out and put his hand on Amy’s shoulder. She did not let it stay and turned with her arms crossed to look out the window away from him. Jessica refused to meet her husband’s gaze as he turned his head back toward her. She focused her attention on Maggie and ignored his pleas for understanding.
“I didn’t know this would happen. I didn’t know they would die. I loved them too. Please, you have to understand. What was I supposed to do?” he said. Evan banged his fists against the steering wheel. “I’m so sorry. Please, don’t treat me this way. Please?”
He put his face into his rough hands, his shoulders jerked, and his head trembled. Loud gasping sobs filled the inside of the van. Amy got out, refusing to listen to him any longer. She slammed the door as hard as she could. Anger exhumed from deep within her, she felt the same as she had when he told them they would leave their home. They had witnessed terrible, unspeakable things because he wanted to leave. Evan jumped from the vehicle and shoved his crutch under his arm. He spoke in sharp, whispered breaths.
The Trace Trilogy (Book 1): The Wretched Page 6
