Oedema: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel

by Stuart Keane

  Kimberley was nothing but a selfish bitch, a woman who would never make him happy. Not anymore, especially since she preferred cheeseburgers to the support of her faithful partner, support she'd only requested not one moment earlier.

  And with the kid coming along?

  He didn’t want to be a part of that.

  He couldn’t be a part of that.

  Maybe Kimberley would prosper as a lone parent. Maybe the routine of motherly duties would kick her in the abnormally large arse and bring her down a peg or two. Maybe the child would survive the first few weeks of parenting, and maybe Kimberley would refrain from eating her child when the groceries arrived an hour late. Maybe, just maybe, she would be a good parent.

  But, he highly doubted it.

  And much like she was a terrible girlfriend, he expected her to be less of a giving mother.

  I'm leaving, Roy thought.

  I'm done.

  But first, let's get out of this fucking ambulance.

  *****

  "How can I help you, Ms Foster."

  Marilyn Foster entered the office, smiled, and tentatively took a seat opposite Jeremy Markos. She slid the chair out with a smooth tug, and lowered herself into it with elegance and poise. Her blonde hair swept across the trim shoulders of her grey trouser suit, and disappeared behind her head as she flicked the strands away. Her legs crossed over one another and became the support for a frayed notepad, one she slipped from her pocket. Her thumb clicked a pen and placed it on top. The smile disappeared as she got down to business.

  "Jeremy Markos, do you know Fiona Markos?"

  He laughed. "Of course. She's my wife. We're happily married. You know this. Isn't that why you're here?"

  "I'll ask the questions, sir. Thank you. It's a yes or no answer."

  "Then, yes. I do."

  A scribble "When did you last see Fiona Markos?"

  "This morning, before work. She usually leaves at about eight."

  "Was today any different, for any reason?"

  "No."

  Foster chuckled. "We'll try this again. That wasn't a yes or no question, Mr Markos. I need details, please."

  "Details?"

  "Did she leave early or late, seem rushed or distracted? Did she use different butter on her toast? Did she put her knickers on backwards? Anything out of the ordinary?"

  "Like I just said, no."

  "Good."

  Jeremy eyed the woman with mild contempt. Watched as she scribbled in her pad using precise, jerking movements. He licked his lips. Once done, she placed the pen beneath her hand and looked up. "Have you spoken to your wife today?"

  "No. We don't speak while at work. Professional courtesy."

  "You don't as a couple, or you don't as in her decision."

  "A mutual decision. What's with the questions, Ms Foster? What is this about?"

  "We'll get to that. Mr Markos, has your wife been acting strange recently, showing any signs of stress, or behaving irregularly. Has she joined any clubs, been socialising a bit more than usual, stayed at the office late? Stuff like that…"

  "No," Jeremy lied. He swallowed and composed the next sentence in his mind before continuing, "I've noticed no change in her behaviour."

  "You sure?" Foster latched her inquisitive gaze onto Jeremy and studied every movement. He noticed, and tried not to flinch, or give away that he was hiding something. He thanked the Lords that his bin was beneath his desk, its charred contents hidden from sight.

  "I'm certain," he finally replied.

  "I see."

  "Ms Foster, please. You're worrying me."

  Marilyn Foster stood up and buttoned her jacket. She nodded and placed a hand on the desk before her. "Mr Markos, we have several eyewitness accounts who confirm that Fiona Markos, your wife, threw herself off the roof of her workplace earlier this morning. She was approached by concerned security guards at the time, and leaped shortly thereafter."

  Jeremy stared at Marilyn Foster, gobsmacked, his eyes seeing the intrusive woman before him, and then seeing nothing but a jumble of sprightly colours. After a full minute, a trembling smile split his face in two. "Nice try."

  Foster cocked her head. "Excuse me?"

  "My wife would never do that, Ms Foster. She was happy."

  "You suspect suicide?" Foster asked, clearly confused.

  "Yes, you said yourself that she jumped. If that is, in fact, true."

  "She did. Six people confirmed it."

  "That's preposterous. She works at a water plant. She would have no business being on the roof. She's a pencil pusher."

  "An office worker who had undeniable access to drinking water."

  "Yes? What's your point?"

  "Mr Markos, we suspect that your wife was involved in some kind of terrorist cell. She instigated a chemical attack – the origins of which are unknown at his point – on our soil. She committed suicide to elude capture."

  "Bullshit."

  "Again, we have witnesses who confirm it. It's not the only attack. Have you seen a TV set today?" She glanced around the office and shook her head. "On second thoughts, scratch that. Your assistant said you've been holed up in here all day."

  "Some of us work for a living, Foster. Some of us spend our time wisely, instead of accusing innocent people of being involved in terrorist activity. I don’t care what your witnesses say, Fiona was innocent."

  "You sure about that?"

  "I'm absolutely certain."

  Marilyn Foster nodded. "Mr Jeremy Markos, I need to ask you some questions, show you some evidence. Your wife has been implicated in a terrorist act, which gives me the right to arrest you. But I don't want to, you seem like a nice guy. You can come voluntarily, or by force. Either way, your day is just beginning."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "I brought handcuffs," she said, dangling the item before her.

  Jeremy flicked his gaze to the door, behind Foster. Imagined walking through the foyer in cuffs, and ruining his reputation. He nodded. "I'll come quietly. Put the cuffs away."

  NINE

  Alex sighed in contentment as he finished his third beer, flicked his hand into the air, and motioned to Stephen for a fourth. The barman walked over, opened a fresh bottle, and placed it on the bar. He punched the order into the till and added it to the tab. After a pause, Stephen retrieved two bags of Scampi Fries from a hanging board on the wall, and placed them on the bar too. Alex looked up. "I didn’t order these."

  "On the house. Drinking on an empty stomach is not wise."

  "Oh. In that case, get me a damn bar menu, Stephen. If we're going to do this, we'll do it properly."

  Stephen shook his head and laughed. "As you wish, sir."

  Alex grinned in defiance, the fuzziness and inflated self-confidence of the alcohol easing into his thinning bloodstream, and soothing him somewhat. He checked his phone again, and marvelled at the Wi Fi signal. He took another sip of his cool beer and sighed blissfully, the stress of the previous first-world problem now a forgotten joke. A slim black bar menu landed in front of him. Alex sensed Stephen's lingering presence as he studied the delicacies on offer, and looked up.

  "Call her," Stephen mused. "Call Nicky. The food isn't going anywhere."

  Alex put a hand to his head in mock salute. "You're the boss."

  "Quite the opposite, sir." Stephen smiled and stepped back, his gaze roaming across the room before him. His hands still polished a wide tray of steaming glasses, freshly removed from the dishwasher, and Alex wondered just how many the pub owned. He chuckled at the meaningless thought and stood up, flicked the screen of his phone, and found the Skype app. He thumbed Nicky's profile picture and paused. Frowned.

  He heard a noise.

  What was that?

  Alex stared at the large stencilled window of the public house and narrowed his eyes. Took a step forward. His hand dropped to his side, the phone still aglow. After a moment, he locked the phone and slipped the device into his pocket.

  Sirens blared loud
ly, piercing the air with their distinctive intrusiveness. Seconds later, a series of white vehicles zoomed by, strobing the early evening a vibrant blue with their deft presence. Alex took another step towards the entrance. Around him, others were forgetting their drinks and food, and now averting their attention to Alex's sudden presence, and the strange noise.

  A strange beeping noise.

  He peered through the open pub doors and noticed a white van on the roadside. The vehicle was positioned at a crooked angle, illegally parked across tattered double yellow lines. The paintwork was bruised and jaundiced with neglect and age, and rust was consuming the fraying edges of the ancient metal. The tyres were beaten grey and smooth, extensively worn from years of use. The license plate and its coded numbers stated that the vehicle was at least twenty-six years old.

  Alex cocked his head. "Stephen, is that van yours?"

  "No, sir. I walk to work. Why?"

  Alex looked around at the patrons that resided in the public house. "Anyone own that van?" The response was a series of concerned head shakes and muffled murmurs, but no one confessed to ownership. The tension in the room was now palpable as some returned to their meals, interest waning.

  Like anyone would confess to owning such a shit heap.

  Stephen stepped to the edge of the bar and tossed his towel on its glistening surface. His weary gaze followed his customer's, and shared the same concern. "Why, Alex?"

  Alex gulped. "It wasn't there before. And it's parked, badly, on double yellow lines."

  "The rotten scoundrel," Stephen muttered. He said it with a deep tone, one that made him sound like a 1930s-portrayed Al Capone. It drew a few chuckles from the attentive patrons.

  Alex walked back towards his bar stool, and muttered to himself, "Forget it. I must be imagining –"

  Which is when the front of the public house exploded.

  *****

  Luke ran down the stairs and bolted straight into the kitchen. He flung open the cupboards and scanned the myriad of contents with wide, agitated eyes. His hands shot out and claimed cans, bottles and cartons, anything that contained fluids or drink. He repeated the process with the fridge too. Luke placed the items on the empty dining table in the centre of the room. After a minute, his quest was complete.

  He breathed out and looked at the haul.

  Two large bottles of Pepsi, a bottle of milk, six cans of Dr Pepper Zero, a whole box of Capri Sun, three chocolate Yazoos.

  And three, six-packs of mineral water.

  Luke ran his hands across his head, and instinctively bolted the back door. He studied the room, grabbed a dining chair and shoved it under the handle. He then closed his eyes, took a moment to mentally prepare himself, and finally opened them with routine focus. He grabbed a second chair, walked out into the entrance hallway and repeated the protective action with the front door. He took the keys and slid them into the lock too, for good measure. He closed the blinds on the front window in the lounge, walked back to the kitchen, tossed the drinks into a carrier bag, returning the milk to the coolness of the fridge, and returned to his sister.

  Nicky looked up in bewilderment as her brother walked into the conservatory. "What's going on?"

  Luke said nothing as he placed the drinks on the floor. His eyes scanned the wide dining room and its attached conservatory meticulously, searching for any vital points of entry or weakness, any potential risks. He closed the blinds on the windows, locked the double patio doors, and sheathed them with the unused curtains above. A plume of fine dust rained into the air and made him splutter.

  "Luke!"

  "I'm fine," he coughed, as he walked back into the room.

  Content with the security of the area, he scooted over to Nicky and once again sat beside her. "I just found out from a colleague. Those attacks … they were a blanket, the perfect distraction, a prelude to something far worse."

  "Which is?"

  Luke licked his lips, and wiped the hot perspiration from his temples. "The terrorists I told you about … somehow, I'm not sure how, they infected the water system."

  Nicky stared at her brother. He watched his sister compute the catastrophic information, noticed a twitch of her blinking eyelids, the dimple of her chin, the curl of her bottom lip.

  "The water?"

  He nodded. "Yes."

  "With what?"

  "It's a virulent strain called Oedema. A man-made virus that attacks the nervous system. You're a nurse. The name, and effects, should be self-explanatory."

  Nicky dipped her chin in silence.

  Luke flicked his gaze to the window, and back to his sister. Waited her out.

  "The water systems have filters. Layers of advanced chemical protection. Ways of protecting us from such attacks. It wouldn’t get into the drinking water –"

  "This isn't your standard virus. Once inserted, it becomes one with the water's chemical imprint. No filter can touch it, because it can't detect it. Its glides through as a silent passenger, unnoticed.

  Nicky snorted, "Impossible."

  "Not so."

  "You've actually seen this virus before?" she finally asked. "In action?"

  Luke nodded. Shuddered. "Just the once."

  "What happened."

  "How does oedema affect the body?" he said, protecting his sister for a moment longer.

  "Oedema is a condition. Watery fluids collect in the cavities and tissues of the body. Causes swelling in the limbs and other areas. Sometimes, rarely, it can leak from the skin if pushed to its limits. It used to be called dropsy, back in the day."

  "Okay, but Oedema – the virus – doesn’t do that. Oedema turns the bodily tissue into water. The virus mutates the DNA and the cells, to turn the flesh and muscle into a translucent liquid, like that of its command, thus melting the victim."

  Nicky blinked. "You're fucking kidding me."

  "No. Once you come into contact with it, your time is done. Drink it, get it on your skin, bathe in it, whatever. Whether its hours or days, depending on your exposure, you will eventually succumb to it in some manner. There is no cure."

  "That's pure science fiction. No such disease could possibly exist."

  "Yet, it does. These scumbags have gone to a lot of trouble to bring humanity to its knees, and in doing so, we might not even have any knees to lean on. They even took themselves out of contention, made themselves martyrs for the cause. You know they mean business when they don't stick around to take credit for the attacks."

  Nicky felt her skin flushing hot. "This can't be happening…"

  "It is. And we have to face it. Right now, and prepare for the eventual fallout."

  Nicky continued to stare at her brother, her breath now coming in short gasps.

  Luke stood up. "Which means we don't have much time." He collected the bag from the floor and placed the drinks on the table before her. "These drinks, I bought them a few days ago. The drinking water was compromised earlier this morning … we should be okay to drink these. Just don't use the water in the taps, whatever you do."

  Nicky cupped the back of her head with intertwined hands. "And when we run out?"

  Luke shook his head. Said nothing.

  She continued, "And when other people run out?"

  "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." Luke slipped the handgun from his waistline and loaded a round into the chamber, before placing it on the table.

  Nicky screamed and flinched back into the sofa. "What the fuck –"

  "Protection. My service weapon."

  "I thought you had to leave it at the base."

  Luke smiled. "That's what they tell me. Now, it's our one hope against what's coming. People will come scavenging for supplies, once the panic sets in. It's a certainty. Survival instinct will set in. We need to be ready for it when they do."

  Nicky began to gasp, became flustered. Her sweating face bleached pale before her cheeks darkened with a deep red hue. She coughed and grimaced as the spasm jolted her surgical scar. She forced herself to sit up s
traight, to give her body the room it needed. She hissed through gritted teeth as she found comfort in her new position. "You're … you're not seeing the bigger picture here, Luke."

  "I think I know where you're going with this…" he answered.

  "How do you propose we survive this attack? Once the drinks are gone. If the water can't be filtered…"

  Luke said nothing, but he shook his head. He had no answer for her.

  Nicky continued, "We need water. It's vital to our existence. Without it…"

  Again, Luke said nothing. He stared at the bottle of Pepsi on the table, licked his lips, but refused to take a drink. Statutory rationing of the supplies was already occurring in his frazzled mind, a tactic he learned from the forces.

  "And what about everyone else? Does the general public know about this?"

  Luke took Nicky's hand in hers, and pressed it gently. "No, but when they do find out the false truth, via whatever mainstream news company or misinformed tweet, we need to be ready. People will assume the worst, but they will also react violently. Trust me … it doesn’t take much to push a human to the edge of sanity."

  Nicky began to fan her reddened face with an outstretched hand. "I can't … I can't process this. I … I need to speak to ... to Alex."

  "So, call him. Do whatever you want to settle your nerves. I'll protect you, no matter what. We can hole up in here, stay away from potential trouble. The house is pretty sturdy." He parted the blinds with his fingers and stared at the street beyond. People were milling back into their houses now, and sharing muted conversation. "You don’t have any serial killers living on this street, do you?"

  Nicky reached for her phone, ignoring her brother's question. "This is a living nightmare."

  Luke nodded. Remembered his one personal incident with Oedema, a few months ago. The horrific sights on that hot day would haunt his dreams and nightmares for the remainder of his days. He watched his sister as she struggled to use her mobile phone, saw the primal terror on her flushed face. He decided to keep the memory, and the tragic aftermath, to himself.

  Nicky slapped the phone to her head, and waited. "He isn't answering. Apparently, he's out of range."