Viral Airwaves

by Claudie Arseneault

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Acknowledgments

  Want More?

  Chameleon Moon by RoAnna Sylver

  Fourth World by Lyssa Chiavari

  Daybreak Rising by Kiran Oliver

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  VIRAL AIRWAVES

  Copyright © 2015 Claudie Arseneault

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Matt Larkin and Brenda Pierson

  Graphic Design by Gabrielle Arseneault

  Interior Design by Lyssa Chiavari

  claudiearseneault.com

  Aux centaines de millers d’étudiants descendus dans les rues en 2012,

  Vous avez marqué ma vie, mon imaginaire,

  Voici un premier hommage.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Every year, Henry Schmitt mourned his mother alone. He stood at her grave under drizzling rain or beating sun, commemorating the day the Threstle Plague had taken her life. Eight years had passed. Eight mornings. Today a rare storm prepared above his head and he could hardly concentrate on his mother. Today, Henry was mourning his town as much as he did her, and the new grief overpowered his thoughts.

  The Plague hadn’t killed Ferrea, however. The small town’s life was entwined with the Annual Mount Kairn Races. The major sporting event used to bring hordes of tourists, providing Ferrea with its main source of revenue. Except the last two years hadn’t been a big success and the small town’s residents were dwindling, moving out to better, more secure lives. Only the grocer, his wife and the innkeeper were left, but how long would that last? After yet another afternoon hunched over the counter at Kinsi’s grocery, listening to the National Radio Broadcast for news of the Races, Henry’s hope was slimming. His mother was dead. His town was dying. All he had left was the two packs of instant noodles he’d just bought and the fresh cucumbers Tia had forced into his hands. Henry headed home, trying to forget the bleached gravestone he’d stared at all morning in favor of the fresh food he’d enjoy tonight.

  He stopped as he reached the little ridge at Ferrea’s outer limit. Down a slight slope and a curve was his house, with a dead and twisted tree as its only company. Once, it had stood proudly in the middle of colored tents, its backyard cleared for the balloon take-off, the oak green and flourishing. An empty husk remained behind. Alone.

  Not today.

  Henry squinted against the sun’s glare to get a better view of the stranger at his door. The man was tall and pale of face, with white wind-blown hair whipping about, sometimes catching in his thin glasses. His shoulders were stooped from a long road.

  A ghost in a dead town.

  Henry wondered how many doors the newcomer had knocked on before he’d reached his. Or perhaps he’d gone straight to it? His home did house the Races’ official tourist shop. His heart sped and he tightened his grip on the tote bag holding his dinner. What if this man had come to his door with the very news he’d expected from the radio?

  Henry thanked the winds for the answer to his prayers, ran down the slope to his house, and hailed the stranger in as professional a voice as he could manage. “Hey, can I help you? Any tidings from the Annual Mount Kairn Races?”

  “The Races? No, no, no. I’m not here for the race.”

  I’m not here for the Races. Those six words dashed Henry’s hopes.

  The stranger shrugged his bag off his shoulder and dropped it next to the door as Henry switched on the power. “I’m just a traveler. I need a place to stay. Seraphin Holt.”

  The man rolled his r a little, a hallmark of Regarians. Henry wondered what someone from the eastern province was doing so far from his home. Regarians weren’t big travelers, usually. He was about to comment when his gaze met Seraphin’s. His eyes were pale as a sunny summer sky, the pure blue only marred by a minuscule tinge of red in the background. He stared, transfixed. Albinism wasn’t common and until the stranger cleared his throat, Henry forgot his manners. Then he noticed the hand offered for a shake and hurriedly took it, holding back a curse against his clumsiness.

  “Schmitt! Henry Schmitt. There’s an inn higher up the street, in the town proper.”

  Between the hostilities with Burgia, so close to the south, and the Races’ absence, the owner hadn’t been able to rent any rooms. Paul was a good friend and one of Ferrea’s last residents. Henry didn’t want to steal his customers.

  “I know,” Seraphin said. He did not pick up his pack.

  “Paul doesn’t charge much and he’s a good cook.”

  “I don’t doubt it. I’d rather sleep here, if possible.”

  Why would he avoid the local inn? This promised trouble. Henry had no desire to add to his list of problems.

  “No. Go see Paul.”

  “I have my own food.”

  Henry hesitated. A single second. Long enough.

  “I’ll pay you,” Seraphin added. “Sixty.” He glanced around the room. “I’m aware of how little income Ferrea gets out of season. Don’t pretend you don’t need the money. All I ask is a bed to rest in tonight, and I’ll be gone in the morning.”

  Henry glanced at the dinner awaiting him. A pile of cucumbers and two packs of instant noodles. Perhaps the winds had answered his prayers, just not the ones he’d thought.

  “Only tonight?” he asked.

  “I promise.”

  One night for sixty dollars? Too good a deal. Henry studied the stranger for signs of treachery. Seraphin bent forward, muscles wired tight, waiting for his answer. The bags under his eyes betrayed his fatigue. Perhaps he had good reasons to avoid the inn. Henry prayed that was it.

  “You can have the bed, but I need to change the sheets.”

  “Thank you, I—that’ll be perf
ect.” Seraphin’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes and leaned against the doorway. The sudden release of tension surprised Henry. Too much relief? What could it mean? Henry wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. Stay calm. It might not mean anything.

  “You can come in,” Henry said, his voice a bit thick.

  Seraphin stepped inside the kitchen and sat onto one of the stools lining Henry’s counter. The Regarian picked through his bag and brought dinner out while Henry fought against his mounting panic. Three seconds from decision to regret: a new record. The food Seraphin put on the table helped appease his misgivings. Two bottles of juice and a handful of bags decorated his counter. Henry’s gaze moved from one choice to the next: dried fruits, beef jerky, nut bars, dried cookies, and a chunk of Burgian cheese. Nothing perishable.

  “How long did you spend on the road?” he asked.

  “Long.”

  Henry waited for details. Instead, Seraphin opened a nut bar and gestured toward the food. “Go ahead. It’s the least I can do.”

  No need to tell him twice. Henry put his purchases on the ceramic surface, then brought a stool to the opposite side and grabbed a knife. The cucumbers would add freshness to their impromptu dinner. His stomach grumbled as he sat and cut the vegetable into slices. He hadn’t eaten this well in weeks. The dried fruits went down first, followed by the jerky. As he chewed on the tough meat, Henry planned what would be next.

  Ten minutes later, everything had found its way into Henry’s stomach. Seraphin ate a few cucumber slices and nibbled on the same nut bar through the entire meal. His body remained turned toward the door and his gaze never left it. Henry’s satisfaction at a healthy supper overrode his guilt about eating most of it. How many more would he get out of sixty dollars?

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll sleep now,” Seraphin said. “I walked all day.”

  Questions burned Henry’s lips. What was the hurry? Why did he keep staring at the door? Seraphin would be gone by dawn, though, and his mother always said to mind your own business. No sense in prying. He slid off his stool.

  “Right this way, sir.”

  A simple wooden door connected the kitchen to his bedroom. They left the empty cupboards and unplugged fridge behind and entered Henry’s main living area. The bed remained undone and the sheets piled at its foot. Old shirts hid the wooden floor, topped by the occasional pair of boxers, and his pyjama pants hung on the desk chair. No one else came into this room anymore. Henry cleaned when no clear path remained between his door and the bed. Seraphin contemplated the mess with wide eyes.

  “I’m sorry. Give me a moment,” Henry said.

  He bent over, swooping the clothes from the ground and gathering them into a large bundle. He dumped the entirety of it in his wardrobe before changing the bed’s sheets.

  “Paul’s rooms are always clean.”

  Seraphin ignored the comment. He held the old picture of Henry’s family that sat on the bedside table and studied the image. A ten-year-old Henry stood in front of a hot air balloon, wearing his father’s pilot cap, while Lenz Schmitt wrapped his arms around the boy’s shoulders. His mother had taken the picture. He could remember her laugh as the pilot cap was shoved upon Henry’s head. Cheerful. Free of worries. No one had heard of the Threstle Plague yet. They’d thought she’d live long past Henry’s fifteenth birthday.

  “Is that your father?” Seraphin asked.

  “Yes. The day of my first flight.”

  The stranger’s gaze left the picture to study him. Henry squirmed under the scrutiny. Why did a family picture matter so much?

  “Did the Plague take him?”

  “It killed my mother,” Henry said. “The loss drove him away.”

  “Oh. My apologies.” He slammed the picture down, as if the deadly virus still contaminated it. Even almost a decade later, everyone was worried about the illness. Seraphin pressed his lips together. When he spoke again, he picked a different subject. “Hot air ballooning is not a common passion. Even back then, it was rather rare.”

  “Still the only thing we had in common.”

  Henry couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. When his father spoke of anything but balloons, he’d become a cold man. Sometimes Henry wondered if he would’ve mattered at all to him had he not shared this peculiar love. It didn’t help that Lenz Schmitt’s only message when he disappeared was a small note on the chest in which they stored the balloon: Don’t lose the envelope, Henry. Never give it up. Like the great purple-and-gold fabric mattered more than him. No goodbye. No good luck. No apologies. Just a note.

  Seraphin had reached for something under his long shirt, at his belt. When he spoke again, he adopted a solemn and warm tone. “I’m sure they watch over you.”

  “Doubt it.” Why would a man who had abandoned him when he was fifteen spend his afterlife hovering above Henry and protecting him? Ancestors and family mattered to Regarians, however. Seraphin’s wish did not surprise Henry. “Thanks for the sentiment, though.”

  Seraphin returned his attention to the picture, a frown on his bony face. Henry crossed the room, leaving his guest to the deep thoughts that marred his expression. When the Regarian woke from his lethargy, they wished each other a good night. As Henry closed the door, Seraphin put his glasses on the bedside table and removed his shirt.

  Before the door closed entirely, Henry saw what he shouldn’t have.

  A gun.

  An old-fashioned, flint-and-lock pistol, with a bright red string coiled around the handle. Seraphin’s fingers had reached for it again, as they had a minute ago, under the shirt, and Seraphin traced the string. His skeptar, inherited from his own father. A token meant to carry his ancestors’ spirit and protect them. Most Regarians incorporated the skeptar into trinkets—wristbands, amulets, decorated tools of their trade. Not Seraphin. He had a pistol.

  Firearms could kill. And they were illegal.

  Henry’s heart thumped against his chest. He hoped Seraphin’s prayers would cover the short click of the door as he closed it. All the questions repressed through dinner bounced around his head. Who had he allowed into his house? What was he running from? Did Seraphin intend to pay him, or shoot him down before he went on his merry way?

  The evening replayed in his head as Henry made his way back to the ceramic counter. Every creak of the floor made his heart jump. Rain hammered on the windows and roof. His dusty house now smelled of humidity, and thunder rumbled in the distance. He ought to tell Kinsi. The grocer always knew what to do, even with situations involving a stranger and a pistol. Besides, Henry couldn’t sleep here. Too dangerous. He strode to the door, put his coat on, and set his straw hat on his head.

  His resolve faltered as he grabbed the doorknob. His tendency to overreact often got the better of him. Seraphin might have a special license for his weapon. The Regarian’s story and secrets were none of his business. Could Henry brave the rain and sell him out while he slept? What if he was wrong about Seraphin? Come morning, Seraphin would no longer be his problem and he would have enough money to survive the month, at least.

  Henry released the doorknob and wiped his sweaty palms. Wait and see. Always a good plan.

  He undressed and went across the kitchen, through the open archway that led to his living room. Despite his speedy heartbeat, Henry lowered himself onto the old couch. The fabric was soft against his skin, smoothed by decades of use. Even in his teenage years, the sofa had smelled of dust and age. The reassurance that some things never changed eased his nerves. He remained motionless, listening to the soft rain and howling wind. The downpour would give a hand to the half-dead flowers lining Ferrea’s main street. They needed water as much as the remaining residents needed tourists. If only the latter fell from the sky, too.

  Henry dreamt of his mother, pockmarks covering part of her round, hollowed visage. She turned to him, her beautiful dark skin marred by the illness. He reached for her but she raised Seraphin’s flint-and-lock pistol. Smiled. At the detonation he woke with a start.


  The rain outside had stopped, and silence hung heavy in the house. He crawled out of the couch and snuck to the bedroom door. Closed. Henry exhaled. Outside, clouds obscured the stars. Long hours remained before dawn. Once again, he thought of warning Kinsi. Better not to wake him, though. He’d share the story Wednesday, on their weekly night at Paul’s, when he’d buy the first round.

  Unless Seraphin shot him before then.

  The dark thought created a hole in his belly and his mouth watered. If he was to die, three in the morning seemed a good time to enjoy a final late night snack. Henry moved to the kitchen, grabbed his metal pot, and filled it with water. The pot clanked loudly. Subtlety had never been his strength. Seraphin didn’t wake, however, and Henry soon sat alone at his counter with a bowl of instant noodles. He tried to eat slowly and appreciate every slurp, just in case, but nervousness overpowered his will and he shoveled the spoons in his mouth at high speed.

  His gaze never left the bedroom’s door. What kind of trouble would the stranger hiding there bring?

  The answer crashed through the front door, gun in hand.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Don’t move.”

  Henry obeyed. Instant noodles hung from his mouth, dripping into the bowl. Powerful gusts swirled into the house. The door sagged sideways, broken by a kick. From where he sat, Henry had a great view of the gun pointed at him.

  The deadly firearm rested in the stable hands of an army poster-boy. Tall and serious, with a square jaw and smooth chin, the man exuded confidence and competence. He strode into the kitchen, his rigid back displaying his clean beige uniform and the two officer’s stripes on his shoulders. His gaze stopped on Henry.

  “Where is he?”

  There was no need to ask who ‘he’ was. A split-second glance at the bedroom door betrayed Henry’s thoughts. The soldier walked past him without another word. When he kicked the door, wood splintered with a loud crack. Henry spewed his noodles out. The officer spun around to glare at him, but the gun remained trained on the Regarian inside the room. Henry raised his hands anyway, bumped the bowl. Splashed his last meal over the counter.