The Sixth Extinction: America (Omnibus Edition | Books 1 – 8)

by Johnson, Glen

  The Director removed a hankie and wiped beats of sweat off his forehead.

  “And we also conclude it is not technically a virus; it doesn’t follow typical viral laws of reproduction. The only thing we can find that comes close to its genetic makeup is a particular genera of flora.”

  The Director listened intently to the doctor speak. He then said, “Could you repeat that in layman’s terms, please doctor. Most of what you just said was just long complicated words that have no meaning to me.” He smiled to show he wasn’t being rude, just pointing out the obvious.

  “Sorry, of course.” Doctor Bachman coughed to clear his throat. “Basically, we are talking about a new, undiscovered species of carnivorous plant that uses a human host to carry, and distribute the fungi spores.

  “In fact, there is a similar known Flora, a fungus that acts in the same manner. The fungus is called Opiocordyceps unilateralis, of the Cordyceps family. This fungus can be found in most topical rainforests across the planet. There are thousands of different strains of the fungus, and each one specializes in a different type of individual species, say an ant, a moth, or stick insect – each fungus only affects that particular species.

  “One such strain that affects ants starts by being breathed in or landing on the ant’s body and boring in. Over a two-week period, the fungus takes over the ant’s nervous system and brain. The fungus, once it has completely taken over the ant, releases a chemical to make the ant leave the colony and climb to the understory vegetation of the tropical rainforest, which provides the perfect platform for when the spore-producing stem grows out of the back of its head.

  “The stem can take up to three weeks to grow – looking like a long alien antenna with a bulbous end – before it is ready to explode, releasing spores that will affect any ant in the vicinity. One infected ant can wipe out a colony of over nine million.

  “Mother nature can be ruthless. However, it does work out for the environment, because it stops one species from becoming dominant. The more numerous the species the more likely it would become infected, keeping the numbers down. Nature’s way of culling and controlling so one species doesn’t become too over populated.”

  “You mean like us humans?” the General said.

  Doctor Bachman nodded his agreement. He continued with the original discourse.

  “There are four stages. All I can tell you from our findings so far is that the four stages change the carrier – as you will soon see as we pass through the other viewing chambers. You will be able to notice the four stages physically, because the DNA is altered so drastically. The last stage bloats the carrier to the point of popping, or exploding the host, so the spores can be dispersed over a larger area.”

  The Director watched the people inside the chamber as the doctor spoke, imagining this happening to them. To him, they were no longer humans; they were the enemy – collateral damage. The few for the good of the many. The numbers on their clothing was their only means of identification, no names, no history, just subjects to be dissected.

  “So we are simply talking about a kind of parasitic plant life that latches onto a human host and uses it as food and transport?”

  “Yes.” Bachman nodded.

  “So now you know what it is you can create an antidote to reverse the effects?”

  “No,” Doctor Bachman simply stated. “It’s not as easy as making a tablet or antidote.”

  “I don’t understand. If you can pinpoint the problem, why can’t it be fixed?” The Director turned to face the doctor. He was used to people saying yes. No was a new concept for him.

  “There is nothing to fix. Once the host is infected, the DNA is adjusted on a molecular level. The host is no longer classed as human, but a new species. It would be like trying to create a drug to turn a butterfly back into a caterpillar – it’s impossible to reverse.”

  He remembered Doctor Lazaro’sanalogy used at the end of her notes. He couldn’t think of a better one himself.

  “Jesus,” the General muttered.

  “If it can’t be reversed, can something be created to stop people from becoming infected in the first place?” The Director questioned while wiping his forehead again with the hankie.

  “Yes, there is hope.”

  “Hope?”

  “Yes I believe so,” Doctor Bachman stated. “It is not a virus that can replicate only inside the living cells of an organism, which can be removed or killed off. The host becomes infected by physically inhaling the spores into their lungs, which then attach and start the process of changing the host’s DNA. Therefore, a drug cannot be produced to reverse the effects, but maybe one can be created to stop the genotype latching onto the particular section of the DNAs double helix. In the pharmaceutical trade, it is called a Blocker.

  “As we speak thousands of scientists, all across the country, and the world, are working on this problem. It is our top priority.”

  But it will not save the tens of millions already infected; he thought to himself.

  The three stood in silence staring at the people in the yellow jumpsuits. A few gave up trying to argue through the soundproof glass. Two men were fighting, pushing each other about. It mattered little; there was an endless supply aboveground.

  “Poor bastards,” the General muttered.

  “Through this door is Stage Two,” Doctor Bachman stated as he placed a hand on a scanner to a door leading into the next chamber.

  The room was identical. However, the occupants of the sealed glass room was not.

  “During the second stage, which lasts two, sometimes three days, the host goes into a catatonic state, similar to a coma patient.” Doctor Bachman stood looking into the chamber along with the two visitors. The occupants wore the same yellow jumpsuits with large numbers wrote on them, but these all looked like they were sleeping.

  There was also a scientist inside with them sealed inside a bulky orange, inflated hazmat suit. He was pushing a handheld device into a young teenage girl’s swollen mouth, taking some kind of reading.

  “Have you noticed the eyes and throat?”

  It was the first things the Director had noticed. The eyes were slightly enlarged and swollen, with thick veins mapped across the forehead and cheeks – they looked red raw, much worse than stage one. The throat was also different, looking bloated and inflamed, with the same engorged veins that looked like they were throbbing.

  “The reason for the throat becomes obvious in the third pod,” Doctor Bachman explained. He walked to the next adjoining door and after scanning, he led the way. There wasn’t much to see when they were all unconscious.

  “I’m afraid this is where it gets nasty,” Bachman stated.

  The room was identical to the last two. However, the glass container was separated into two sections. In the first, it was hard to see what was in the partitioned section due to the amount of crimson blood that was smeared all over its walls.

  3

  Alex and group

  Inside a shipping container, on a truck

  Interstate 80 Express

  New York City – Saddle Brook

  Alex shifted his numb backside. He looked around, studying his surroundings, which he was getting bored with looking at.

  Two bare light bulbs swung from hooks on the ceiling, which illuminated the dull gray corrugated walls. There were vents cut into the top of the sides, with thick sponge like material covering them, to stop spores from entering – they hardly let any fresh air in.

  People were crammed into the container, with bags scattered around them, filled with their worldly belongings. There are three large sealed blue tote bins for water, and plastic containers for the food they could scrounge together between them. It was a pitiful amount.

  Alex knew them all in passing. They had all lived in the same apartment building as him, before the world turned to madness. After he wandered the city each day looking for food and a way to escape, he returned to his apartment. There was nothing there that was useful, but he
felt better being in familiar surroundings. There were no longer any reliable utilities, the water, gas, and power would work spasmodically, one day it would be on then nothing for hours or days at a time.

  That’s when Troy Cobb called a meeting of the apartment’s residents.

  That is, for those who were still around, many of the residents filled up vehicles and disappeared in the second week when the rioting started. Most of the apartments were abandoned, and had been ransacked by those left behind.

  The meeting was short and to the point. Troy stated they would only survive if they stayed together – safety in numbers. He had a truck from work he had taken and refitted for their purpose.

  The plan was simple; they had to get out of the city and head to the countryside. There would be rivers and streams they could drink from, after boiling, and animals to hunt. Inside the concrete city, it was a matter of simply waiting to die – by either starving or being killed by a gang or someone just as desperate as them, or the infected. If they made it to open ground, they could sustain themselves living off nature – there were resources they could tap into. The theory went; if they all stuck together, they would survive. Between them, they all had different abilities and experiences they could bring to the group.

  That was the grand idea. This motley crew was the reality.

  Alex studied the people locked inside the container along with him.

  There was Phyllis Washington, the seventy-one-year-old retired schoolteacher, who used to live in the apartment below him, and who banged on his ceiling at least twice a day. Phyllis was a fragile little woman, whose white hair sailed about her head as if whipped by a breeze. She was asleep and snoring, curled up in a tight ball in the opposite corner, oblivious to the gunfire. She wore her bedclothes and nightgown, with thick slippers on her frail, bird thin feet. She said little and half the time seemed like she didn’t know where she was or what was going on.

  Next to her was Reverend Frank Clark, a forty-six-year-old drunk who was slightly overweight and had a stock of ginger hair that was the worst comb over Alex had ever seen. Most of his pale face is hidden behind a shaggy ginger beard. Frank was the local Catholic priest, part of the Archdiocese of New York. He was taking gulps from a bottle of Jack Daniels that spilled down over his black shirt and jacket and stained his white collar. His eyes looked like he had given up.

  Besides Frank is Bonnie and Juan Sanchez, the seventeen-year old second generation Mexican twins. Juan was two minutes older than his sister. He was a runty looking, skinny, withdrawn teenager with authority issues. He had black, greasy lank shoulder-length hair. He dropped out of school at thirteen and ran with a local gang. He was unemployed but always seemed to be wearing expensive clothing. He sat with a dull black Beretta resting on his lap that he rubbed with his hands continuously.

  Bonnie was his polar opposite. She was polite and well educated. She also had shoulder length black hair. Her lips were full, and her cheekbones were high. She would be a stunner in a couple of years. She was the reason Juan agreed to tag along and leave the gang behind.

  Their abusive father raised them. Two days after the infection reached America; he disappeared. Juan says he just up and left. However, Alex had heard rumors that his body was hidden in the building’s basement. He couldn’t remember who told him?

  Naomi Ford sat against the container wall next to Alex. She was an obese thirty-three-year-old lesbian who worked as a chef in a local vegetarian restaurant. She had a gothic vibe about her, with dyed jet-black hair that was short like a boys, with numerous facial piercings. She was a chain smoker who had little regard for other people’s opinions. She sat with her head back, and her headphones blaring tinny rock music. One hand rested on her raised knee, swinging to the tempo with the sound, sprinkling ash everywhere. The music was her way of ignoring the screaming and gunfire.

  Next to Naomi, waving smoke away from her face is Jessica Scott, a twenty-two-year-old, with shoulder length blonde hair. She was tall and lean and worked as a server in a local diner. In Alex’s opinion, she had stunning blue eyes and a porcelain complexion. She was the sort who walked around in her own little world, oblivious to everything happening around her. She wasn’t rude, just preoccupied.

  Next to Jessica are Cody and Abigail Tanner. Cody is a tall, skinny, scruffy looking twenty-six-year-old soil conservationist, who was also an environmentalist. He wore expensive clothes that were made to look worn out, and he had a ninety-dollar haircut that looked like he had just woken up. He was the new generation of environmentalists – hip, casual, and opinionated.

  His wife Abigail could have been mistaken for his sister. At twenty-five, she was a female version of him. She was a Sommelier – a wine specialist for a chain of restaurants. She wore her black hair in a short non-script bob.

  They didn’t believe in owning a car, which in their opinion was destroying the earth, they both rode bicycles everywhere. They recycled everything – if it couldn’t be recycled, they didn’t buy it. They were the kind of people, who if they saw you tossing a drink can into a normal trash bin; they would happily point your mistake out, and even go as far as to retrieve it and put it in the right recycle bin for you.

  Near the large, back door was the twenty-year-old Tierra Ouellette and her constantly crying, and wiggling, three-year-old son Dante.

  Tierra was a stunningly pretty black woman with an out of proportion fake chest, and a lion’s mane of cascading dyed red hair. If you asked her what she did, she would say she was a dancer. She was, in fact, an exotic dancer of the metal pole, and damp dollar bill variety.

  Troy Cobb was driving the truck. He had the air of a crazy mountain survivalist about him. He was a forty-six-year-old with a lean, sinewy body and a large bushy moustache with a gray crew cut. He worked down at the dock; he was in charge of the shipping containers.

  On the roof with the weapons are Lindell and Terrance King.

  So far, between the group, the only guns they had was two shotguns, and a Berretta and Browning handguns. The rest carried an assortment of weapons – a baseball bat, an axe, a metal pole, and a twenty inch curved machete. Smaller knives were pointless, by the time they got close enough to use them, it was already too late.

  Lindell was the oldest brother. He was a muscular thirty-seven-year-old black man with a baldhead and thick black goatee. He was a weightlifter who worked as a bouncer for a local nightclub with a hidden strip club out the back.

  His younger brother Terrance is thirty-one and made his money as an amateur boxer around the local circuit. He was also bald, but clean-shaven, and every inch of his muscular body was covered in tattoos.

  That was all fourteen of them. A small group brought together by location and circumstance. People banding together, hoping the alliance would give them a better chance of survival.

  However, Alex knew they were like a school of fish – the more of you there were, the less chance you would be the one to be picked off first.

  4

  Doctor Bachman, Director Grant, and General Gordon

  Government Biosciences facility

  Groom Lake, Nevada

  Doctor Bachman stood silently, letting the two men absorb the contents of the two sections of the glass tank, before he commented.

  The Director and General had both obviously seen clips of the creatures before. However, there was a difference between seeing them on a screen, during a report, and standing in front of them.

  The first section was smeared with blood.

  In one corner was a middle-aged naked female. It was a little hard to see too much detail because of the dirty glass. However, what was apparent was her deformed head. Her hair was matted to her scalp with blood. Her bloodshot eyes were twice their normal size, with thick throbbing veins stretching out around the cheekbones and over the face. Her skull looked fractured, with the thick veins holding the bones in place. Her mouth was a large circular maw, with large boney calluses pushing it open, with ruptured teeth sticking out in all
directions. Her throat was swollen and bulged. The neck reminded the viewer of an American Pitcher Plant, with its shape and thick, dark veins over the pale skin. The skin over the neck is stretched so far it looked almost translucent.

  “At the end of stage two the subject’s heart gives way under the pressure. In all intents and purposes, the human is classed as clinically dead. They lay lifeless for anything from a few minutes to an hour – why the time difference between subjects we do not know. Also, for some reason, unknown to us, as soon as the subject becomes reanimated they strip off whatever clothes they are wearing. They then become purely instinctual,” Doctor Bachman stated. He pointed at the person to one side.

  “The woman in the first section has been deprived of food. As you can see, she has started to mutilate her own body with devastating bite marks.”

  Part of her lower left arm was missing, as well as large meaty chunks out of her leg. She sat in a pool of her own congealing blood chewing on her right foot that she had severed at the ankle.

  “Their only purpose is to eat – to consume anything meat based.” He pointed to an array of vegetables scattered about the metal floor of the chamber.

  “As you can see by the vegetables scattered everywhere, if it’s not meat, dead or alive, then they simply disregard it.”

  The woman inside ignored them and continued stripping the flesh and muscles from her dripping severed foot.

  The doctor walked over to the second section of the chamber.

  “Here we have subjects that are supplied with unlimited amounts of meat.”

  On the floor, on their hands and knees are a naked teenage boy and girl. The boy was forcing a whole chicken down his enlarged throat, while shaking his head, trying to break the meat up. The girl was ripping into the soft guts of a goat’s carcass. She would rip a chunk free, then tip her head back, using gravity to help the lump down her swollen throat, similar to how a crocodile swallows its food.