180 Days and Counting... Series Box Set books 1 - 3

by B. R. Paulson

  She studied him, after a moment, she nodded, lifting her chin. “Okay, you want to help? Your sister… she died, but Bryant said the baby is still in NICU. With the hospital full and understaffed, I’m worried the baby isn’t being taken care of.” She swallowed, genuine fear creating a shiver in her hand. “You want to help me? Get your niece and get her back home.”

  “Mom, I don’t know what to do with a baby.” Scott’s own panic grew inside him. He’d never had his own children and the thought of taking care of a small baby without his mom around was terrifying. Plus, he was destined to get sick. She’d be left alone or she’d get sick herself. There was too much against it.

  “She’s our family, Scott. Please… You can’t bring her back here, but… maybe, you could take a picture of her and send it to me?” She twisted her lips to the side, struggling with the tears in her eyes. “You always helped me take care of the younger kids and you used to babysit. You’ll be surprised how fast you remember.”

  The baby… He could save his niece and his nephew. His mom was too stubborn to leave with him, but she wanted him to save the next generation.

  Scott could do that. He didn’t know how, but he could try. Maybe his fatigue was making him believe he could do anything. Maybe he really could. But if his mom wanted him to save his niece, then he had to try.

  His chest tightened and he raised his hand to the glass, touching it where his mom’s palm rested on the other side. It was the final time he would see his mother alive, something in his gut told him that was just the way it was. He nodded and pasted a fake smile on his lips to comfort him or her or Jason, he wasn’t sure. Thinking about his dad wasn’t an option.

  Scott swallowed past the tightening in his throat. “You know what this means, right, Ma?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Tears flowed from her eyes and she sniffed. “I thought I would be able to make it up after a bit, but…. Scott… I probably… if I don’t…” She bit her lower lip. They both knew she wouldn’t. She was too tired, too sick, and her age played a huge role in her survival.

  “Nah, there’s more than this life, Mom. I’ll see you on the other side.” He winked, desperate to assuage her pain and aware enough that there was nothing he could do. “Love you, Mom.”

  “Not as much as I love you, kid.” She jerked her chin toward the road, and moved her gaze to her grandson. “I love you, too, boy. You’re… so special. Go save your cousin and remember how much you’re loved. Tell her about us… Tell her about how much fun we were and how much we wanted you to live so badly.” She averted her wet gaze to Scott’s face. “You have a baby to save.” Her tone refused anything but immediate compliance.

  Scott turned from the house, grabbing Jason’s upper bicep as he tried to rush past his uncle. Keeping his voice low, Scott ordered, “Jason, wave to Grandma with a smile. Leave her some dignity, please, tell her how much you love her and come with me. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

  “But I want to stay with them. I can help them.” Jason glared accusingly at Scott, his trembling lip giving away his vulnerability.

  Scott pulled his nephew into his arms, in a tight embrace. “No, son, we need to go save your cousin.”

  Chapter 9

  Jackson

  The few news stations that were running had already announced the release of the ointment. Jackson’s controlling-streak didn’t like the change in plans he hadn’t authorized, but the part of him that wanted the world to end faster wanted to jump up and down and clap like young school girl.

  Somehow, the virus was evolving faster than his algorithms had predicted. How was that possible? He’d created a simulation for the evolution of the virus and taken into account any viral suppressant drugs that people might pull out. Maybe the use of antivirals, antibiotics, or any other anti- drugs had helped the evolution process.

  Maybe the animals and the petri dishes he’d grown his virus in hadn’t been the right host body to define what the viral statutes of limitation were. He hadn’t had enough people or time to figure out the exactly change in genetic structure. That had been an issue he’d been willing to deal with, but he’d assumed that the virus would go the other way. With no scientific data to fall back on, he had only assumptions to go on.

  There were so many people infected, he had no idea how to tell when someone contracted the disease versus how long it took for them to actually display the symptoms.

  And, oh, the symptoms. Jackson had planned on a pneumonia-like disease with onset after a manifestation of a pox-style rash and a slight fever. The alteration of the blood into a tar-like, clotting viscosity had taken him by surprise.

  The monkeys he’d practiced on hadn’t produced the same symptoms – sure, some of them were similar, but the humanoid versions were drastically different – the three homeless people he’d kidnapped and experimented on had died well before the rashes had even fully “poxed”. With no pustules it was hard to see just how far the disease would go. He had to be satisfied with the results, though.

  Jackson pulled into the Walgreens of his parents’ town a little after eight pm. The early-spring sun hadn’t won out over the drag of darkness and had set two hours before, leaving behind a shadow of light along the western mountain range.

  Leaving his truck, Jackson followed the steady stream of people as they struggled to get inside. Not one person looked to be in one-hundred percent health.

  Black and silvery whiskers framed a man’s weak smile as he held the door of the store for a woman with her hair loosely braided. After they both went inside, she stepped back, waiting for him to pass her and then falling into step behind him.

  Jackson stopped beside the garbage can as he watched the people inside. There wasn’t mass panic or chaos as they filed with an unnatural order to the back where the blue pharmacy sign called them back.

  “They might run out of the Cure, if you stand there long enough. The last store I was at did.” The voice coughed on the end of his phrase, pulling Jackson’s gaze.

  An older man smiled at Jackson, motioning toward the glass doors. “Go on. You were here first.”

  Jackson furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand. Why isn’t everyone scrambling for this?” He’d created an irrefutable cure that would make people go insane to have it following a devastating disease that was sweeping across the world. The rash hurt, the headaches hurt, the muscles hurt. Everything was supposed to be painful and getting the cure was supposed to be relief for that pain.

  The older man ushered Jackson in, falling into place behind another man in front of them. He wiped at his mouth with a handkerchief. “I would imagine most of us are too tired to fight for anything. I barely made it here, but my wife… well, now, she…” Eyes sparkling from unshed tears, the man sniffed. “The missus didn’t want to brave coming out in public looking the way she does –" He winked. “Which is beautiful. Her hairstylist is sick and hasn’t seen her in a bit.” He cleared his throat, shuffling along beside Jackson. “I would imagine we’re all too tired to brawl it out by the shampoo.”

  Jackson nodded carefully, watching the people passing him on their way out of the store. If any of them opened the canisters and used it before leaving the building, the rest of them could be exposed to the chemical byproducts. There was no vaccine for what he’d unleashed on the world.

  He wanted everyone to die, but for some reason the older man triggered something deep inside of Jackson and he softly touched the man’s coat. “I think your wife would rather have you home and ice cream before she’d want this on her skin. Trust me.”

  Something in Jackson’s gaze drove fear through the man’s awareness. He choked on his words, blinking and turning back to the parking lot.

  Jackson didn’t warn anyone else, nor did he worry that the kind gentleman would cause a panic. No one would listen to an old man in a stained white shirt and baggy jeans.

  Approaching the pharmacy counter, taking turns, Jackson avoided touching anyone around him. Pulling out the te
n dollars that the pharmacy sign posted above for the over-the-counter cure, Jackson nodded when an attractive woman with red-rimmed eyes caught his gaze. She looked away quickly.

  Hopefully, her ointment worked faster than the rest. She obviously didn’t know who he was or she’d bend over backwards to be with him.

  The pharmacy technician smiled weakly at him when Jackson reached the counter. “Ten dollars? If you can’t afford it, we have some donated bottles here.” The man’s hand hovered over a white lidded container.

  They’d been packaged in plastic when they were supposed to be done in tin. Plastic wouldn’t contain the chemical properties, not for long.

  “I’ll take three bottles, please. I’ll also donate four hundred bottles – everyone in this store and whoever comes in.” Jackson pulled out a credit card, one of many to his surrogate’s name.

  The man beamed as much as his fatigue would let him. “Thank you, sir. I’ll charge that right away.” He lifted his gaze while running the card. “This gentleman –"

  Jackson cleared his throat. “Can you wait until I’m out of the store, please? I don’t want them to know.”

  The tech nodded knowingly, handing the receipt across the Jackson. Pointing toward the paper bags, Jackson inclined his head. “I know you’re not feeling well yourself. Would it be too much trouble to get my three bottles in the that paper bag? I’m worried there’s latex in the bottle material and I’m highly allergic.” He smiled sympathetically, certain the tech would do exactly what Jackson wanted.

  As Jackson walked away from the counter and reached the door, he glanced back as the tech handed out bottles without asking for money. Pure delight covered customers’ faces as they turned toward the door, tears streaming down some cheeks from the generosity. Many people had been out of work for a while because of their illnesses and money was tight. Few had food or access to funds for food. Jackson understood the trap poverty was. Most people in his hometown were under the poverty line.

  They all owed him a huge thank you. You didn’t have to worry about food or money when you were dead.

  He clenched the very top of the white paperback between his thumb and forefinger. Touching the ointment wasn’t an option. There was no vaccine against the neurological symptoms of the urtica ferox poison in the ointment. He couldn’t wait to describe it to his brother Miguel while he applied it to his smirking face.

  Placing the bag on the floor of the truck, Jackson climbed into the rig. He didn’t have far to go and then he could finally find closure on that part of his life.

  ~~~

  Pulling up to his parents’ home, Jackson glanced around. While most residential neighborhoods would have lights on and some sign of life any other time of year, that time was a huge exception.

  Only two homes had their porchlights on and they had the faded look of a bulb that had burned for far too long without rest.

  Retrieving the bag with the ointment in it, Jackson carried it with care.

  Knocking on the door, he glanced behind him at the quiet street. No children ran and played on the pothole-marked blacktop. Cars didn’t drive up and down the street. In the far off distance, a dog barked, ending in a plaintive whine as if he’d been left outside too long and just wanted in.

  When no one answered, Jackson knocked again, leaning his head toward the door to hear for movement inside.

  After another dragged out moment, the door swung open by Miguel’s wife, Cornelia. She wiped at her nose, her eyes bloodshot. “Juan. What are you doing here?” Her glare was half-hearted and she turned from the entrance to sit down on the couch between three of her children and two of Maria’s. They stared forlornly at the screen that flashed a movie playing as Cornelia leaned back on the cushions, struggling to breathe comfortably.

  “My padre called. He said he needed me.” Jackson offered the reply as if a second thought.

  “Your parents are in the back bedroom. Miguel and Jesus are upstairs.” She closed her eyes and stopped talking. Jackson sincerely hoped she’d get to use the ointment.

  He climbed the stairs with mounting excitement. If Miguel was up there, then Jackson needed to be, too.

  At the end of the dark hallway, Jackson paused. The weird thing was, Jackson didn’t even care about his brothers, but he’d made the trip to watch as his childhood tormentor suffered.

  There had to be some perks to ruining the world.

  Pushing the door open, his smirk widened into genuine mirth.

  Miguel’s large shoulders and fit shape had somehow deflated on the mattress of the guest bed. His dark hair clung like a greasy afterthought to his scalp, protruding into the air in small tufts over his head. The pox rash had spread, bumps with white heads spotting his lower jaw and neck, moving up onto his cheeks with a slow march. He would be in a lot of pain and desperate to use the Cure.

  Jesus rolled to his side, on the pullout bed beneath Miguel and to the side. He blinked blearily as if using his eyes hurt more than anything else he could do. Licking dry lips, Jesus reached up and nudged Miguel’s arm. “Mig. U. El. Juan. Is.” He didn’t continue, licking his lips again more fully, exposing the presence of bumps with white heads on his tongue.

  The scientist in Jackson wanted to stop everything and take scrapings of the disease to see how far it had evolved as well as to note all the symptoms each person had in the house. Finding similarities and comparing differences would help him to understand how the disease affected the human physiology.

  “What are you doin’ here, Juan?” Miguel’s voice was scratchy but in better shape than his brother’s. His bumps must not have spread into his mouth.

  Jackson held out the paper bag. He let the other side fall open and leaned closer to Miguel to reach inside. “I stopped at the pharmacy and grabbed the Cure. I thought you guys could use it. Dad said you weren’t feeling well.”

  Miguel yanked a jar from the bag, his meaty fingers wrapping around the white plastic cylinder without flinching.

  Jackson drew back into the doorway, making sure a steady stream of air passed between him and the doorway. He didn’t need a strong breeze, but he wasn’t sure how much of the poison was airborne at that point.

  Most of the money he had accumulated by theft and fraud hadn’t been used for marketing. No, most of his money had been in bribing officials with the FDA and other drug distributors as he had to get past international guidelines without having the medicine tested first. He’d paid shipping officials to slip it past Customs and into countries where the disease would be hit first.

  Miguel squeezed limply on the lid, pushing and grunting until it twisted open. He panted, leaning back as he gathered strength. Glancing up at Jackson, Miguel closed his eyes and muttered, “Why aren’t you sick?”

  Jackson murmured something unintelligible, watching with wide eyes as Miguel pried the seal from the top. Glaring at Jackson, Miguel sniffed the contents. “You’re sure this is the cure?” He furrowed his brow and twisted his lips. “It looks like Vaseline.”

  Jackson wanted to scream at Miguel to just put it on, but he smiled benignly while he waited. Miguel did everything with a comment and criticism.

  He reached in, grabbing out a quarter-sized amount of the ointment. Turning the bottle around, Miguel squinted at the small writing. “Apply to rash and sites of fever. Isn’t that all over?” He shrugged, reaching behind his head and rubbing the ointment over his neck and down his shoulders. He scooped out more, sighing as he applied the cure to his skin and rubbing it outward.

  The ointment would soothe the symptoms for a little while, a few hours at the most.

  But then the poisons of urtica ferox would work past the numbing wonders of its poison and start working the magic the infamous New Zealand tree nettle was known for.

  Labeled the deadliest plant on earth, the poisons of the tree nettle could cause hallucinations, neurological symptoms, mind-numbing pain, and other issues. That was at its normal concentration. But stripping the plant over the last few years and
creating a toxic chemical counter partner to the nettle, Jackson had concentrated the poison down by over a thousand times and put it into a jar for millions of people. One-eighth of a teaspoon would be more than enough to drive a normal-sized human insane.

  People were going to be putting it on by the tablespoonfuls.

  There would be relief initially, then there would be itching and burning along the nerves which would intensify so strongly that scratching wouldn’t make anything better. If the person didn’t kill themselves to make it go away, the final stage of the ointment would cause their brain to swell and they would hemorrhage to death.

  Jackson finally lifted his chin, arching his eyebrow as his oldest brother smeared the ointment on his skin. “Miguel, you asked why I’m not sick. I took the vaccine.”

  Consternation crossed Miguel’s face. He handed the jar to Jesus who scooped out a liberal amount and wiped it on his face and neck, rubbing it down under his collar and sighing with the relief.

  “What do you mean you took the vaccine? I didn’t hear anything about this. Do they even know what it’s called?” Miguel scooted himself higher in the bed, obviously more energized with the pain relieved. Understanding dawned on his face as he considered his youngest brother. “You knew about this.”

  “It’s called CJ180d.” Jackson laughed, suddenly giddy. “Of course, I knew about it, Miguel, it’s mine.” He pointed at the jar. “That’s mine, too.” He held up his hands as his brothers reached for wet wipes to get it off their skin. “No, don’t bother. You might as well enjoy the relief now. It’s on a greasy conduit so it can’t be removed. You can’t even wash it off.” He laughed, shaking his head. “This stuff even transfers via clothing. You’ll have some neurologic difficulties and then you’ll die in about twelve hours, if you don’t kill yourself first.” He looked from incredulous expression to the next. “Which, yeah, you might want to do. The hemorrhaging is ugly.”