After the Virus
Book 1
Simon Archer
Contents
1. Day One
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
24. Jackie
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
39. Raymond Price
A Note from the Author
1
Day One
My mouth was dry and tasted like I’d been chewing on iron. I couldn’t get my eyes to open, and my face was stuck to my pillow. Just reaching up to see if I could clear the sticky gunk off my eyes was a herculean task that I really wasn’t sure I could accomplish.
I’d had the sniffles for the past week, and with the cold snap, that didn’t come as a surprise. It kind of seemed like everyone had them. Last night, though, I’d closed down the shop and driven back to grandma’s with a pounding head and growing ache in my joints. A light was on, but I felt so bad that I just went to my cottage, took some NyQuil, and passed out on my bed.
Now, aside from the gummed-shut eyes and a mildly throbbing headache, I felt a good bit better, apart from being weak as a newborn kitten. At least everything didn’t hurt today.
After peeling my face off the pillow, I managed to squeeze my eyes shut and rub them clear enough to open, then gathered my energy and rolled out of bed, padding on sock-clad feet to the bathroom.
When I saw my face in the mirror, I froze. Dried blood covered my skin, except where I’d scrubbed it clear of my eyes, along with caked up, yellow-white trails of mucus from my nose and eyes. I coughed and horked a mass of the yellow-white stuff, shot through with blood, into the sink.
“What in the hell?” I croaked aloud, then coughed and spat up more of the stuff. This kept up for a little while, and I turned on the hot water to flush the crap down the drain. It stank, too, sick and sweet and gross like infections I’d smelled when I’d been in the medical tent back in Afghanistan while recovering from my own brush with death.
When the need to cough finally passed, I took a deep, experimental breath. Everything seemed clear, no rattle or anything in my lungs, and the headache had started to fade. I turned off the water just as the lights went off.
“Shit,” I muttered. At least the water heater was gas, so as long the pilot light stayed on, it’d keep me in hot water. I went back to the bedroom in the dim light that filtered through the curtains and slid them open on a bright, clear day. It was kind of cold, which wasn’t surprising. We were well into a southern winter, and the temperatures had just dipped down into the forties.
The clock next to my bed had batteries to keep the time if the power failed, and it read 8 AM. At least it was a Sunday. Grandma might bitch at me for sleeping through church, but as bad as I’d been feeling last night, she’d be lucky I was up at all. Besides, there was always the eleven-o'clock service.
I groaned and scratched my disheveled head, then went back into the bathroom for a much-needed shower in the dim light. Fortunately, the pilot light was still on, and I ran the water as hot as I could before I got in.
There was something therapeutic about a good, hot shower. I let the water carry away the aches I’d awoken with, along with the faint ribbons of blood. Guess I’d had a nosebleed or something while I’d slept, but at least I didn’t feel as sick as I had when I’d gone to bed.
After the shower, I felt a thousand times better. I dressed quickly in jeans, boots, a flannel shirt, and my old bomber jacket, then headed up to the house. The dogs were barking over in the kennel, and I couldn’t help but notice the cows were still in the barn and were fussing something fierce.
I had a sudden, sinking feeling and took off for the house. Usually, grandma would be up by now, the cows would be out in the pasture, and the dogs would be fed. If she wasn’t up, something was wrong.
The kitchen door was the closest to me, so I hurried through, noting a cold pot of soup sitting on the stove. Ghost and Pepper, grandma’s cats, yelled at me from the counter as I passed. Their food bowl was empty, but the water dispenser still sat about one-quarter full. Something was definitely wrong.
“Grandma!” I called out, “You okay?”
Pepper hopped down off the counter and followed me as I rushed on through into the living room. The fireplace was cold, and the room was dark, but I could see the shadowed shape of a figure, sitting immobile in a rocking chair before the fireplace.
My stomach sank. “Grandma?” I asked, moving over to drop down on my knees next to the chair. She was wrapped tightly in a quilt, and a bowl of mostly congealed soup sat on the tray table beside her. With my heart in my throat, I reached out to touch her hand gently.
The fingers were ice cold and stiff beneath my touch. I drew in a deep breath and let out a sigh as I checked her pulse.
Nothing.
I pulled my phone out of my jacket. It still had about a fifty percent charge. A quick swipe and tap ignited the flashlight, and I shone it in her face. Grandma’s eyes were closed, and she looked strangely peaceful, although her slack face and gray skin belied the fact of her death.
“Damn,” I muttered to myself. She had been a vital woman, despite her age, and I really hated seeing her like this. How long had she been dead, I wondered as I turned off the phone light and checked the time: 8:45.
Wait.
Tuesday? What the hell was going on? It was Saturday night when I went to sleep, sick. Had it really been two days? No wonder the critters were all stirring. I’d have to see to them, but I had to call someone about Grandma.
First, I tried 911, but there was no answer aside from the recording. Next was the police department, the fire department, and the sheriff’s office. Still, nothing.
I walked back outside in a daze after feeding the cats.
“Okay,” I said aloud as I walked to the kennel. The dogs were the first priority, and I took care of them. There were five, all females and fixed per Grandma’s preference: Anny, Jenny, Suzy, Maggie, and Penny. All mutts, all rescues, and some of the best farm dogs I’d ever seen.
They bounced around, barking and yipping happily when I opened the gate to the kennel and entered with their kibble. They settled quickly as the five dogs sensed my dark mood. Penny whined softly, and I just shook my head.
“It’s okay, girls,” I told them as I filled their bowls and checked their water. “It’ll all be okay.” Maybe I was trying to convince myself as I said it, though. I left the gate open for them. They wouldn’t leave the property, and they’d warn me if anything were wrong.
Next was the cows. They were a bit more boisterous but were happy to be let out into the pasture. I watched them jostle each other as they made their way out through the gate, then attacked the low grass. That was enough of a distraction to allow me to fill their feeder and lay out a couple of hay bales.
When I finally walked b
ack up to the house, I had come to a resolution. If I couldn’t reach anyone by phone, then I’d have to head into Opelika and see if I could find some kind of help.
First, though, I carefully took Grandma’s body out of her chair. She was stiff, still, but I didn’t have much time. The cold had slowed the rate of decomposition, but if it had been two days, I had to get her taken care of.
I placed the blanket-wrapped corpse on her bed and shut the cats out. Likely they wouldn’t mess with her, but I didn’t want to take any chances. All the while, I wondered what in the hell had happened. A part of my brain ticked its way through worst-case scenarios; chemical or biological warfare, terrorism, you name it.
Out of curiosity, I turned on the old bedside radio that Grandma kept and dialed through static. There was nothing. This definitely wasn’t good, but if the power outage extended far enough, most radio stations within reach wouldn’t be broadcasting.
I turned off the radio and went back outside. There was no putting it off any longer. I needed to head into town. That little paranoid part of me led me to go back to the cottage to get my conceal-carry, a Les Baer Custom .45 ACP. I’d spared no expense on what I’d meant to be my carry piece, and while I’d been fortunate, so far, in not having to draw it in anger, I’d spent enough practice time with the weapon to be confident in it with my life.
The pistol’s weight was strangely comforting at my hip beneath my jacket as I clambered into the cab of my Dodge Ram pickup and started the large four-wheel-drive with a grumbling roar. At least it still worked. Maybe a part of me expected nothing but a click from a failing starter. Whether or not that ruled out some kind of EMP attack was still up in the air. Plus, EMPs didn’t give you the sniffles or kill you.
Static burst from the truck’s speakers, and I winced as I reached over and punched the CD button. Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” started playing about halfway through. I turned it down a bit, shifted into drive, and took off down the dirt road to the street.
Across the neighbor’s fields, I could see the concrete wall that separated the interstate from the farms and residences. It wasn’t far to the on-ramp, then less than ten miles to Opelika.
Shit. I’d have to check on the neighbors, too, but first, I had to find a cop or someone to help. I sniffled, swiped a sleeve across my eyes, and swallowed hard. Maybe someone could tell me what had happened. Maybe…
The thought trailed off, and I pulled out my phone. There were some other people I could call, too; Army buddies, a commander or two, the VA, some of my old postings. Maybe, just maybe, one of them would answer and let me know that everything was okay.
I was pretty sure they weren’t by the time I pulled onto the strangely empty interstate. I’d made four calls and received no answers, not even from Ft. McPherson or Leonard Wood. At least voicemail had picked up, which was more than I could say for local services.
Still, with the power out, no cars on the road, no radio, spotty cell service and internet, and a strange feeling of quiet, my mind wandered in directions that I’d almost consider crazy, aside from the evidence I’d seen. Could some religious apocalypse have happened while I slept? Could it have been something else? The Rapture wasn’t supposed to leave corpses, I didn’t think, at least not according to all the bumper stickers and evangelists who ranted on about the faithful being lifted up bodily to heaven, leaving cars and planes empty as they went out of control and crashed.
No, this was something else, something that I was having a hard time wrapping my head around. I dropped my phone on the seat beside me and focused on driving. It wasn’t far to the exit now, even though I hadn’t been driving fast. My eyes kept roaming the shoulder and the road ahead, looking for stopped cars or anything else.
I passed one, but it had a green D.O.T. sticker plastered on the upper left corner of the hatchback. It had been there for a couple of weeks, too. I’d driven by it on my last couple of trips into town.
Otherwise, there was nothing. There weren’t even any trucks pulled off on the shoulder, or any police in the median. The construction zones I drove through were quiet as well.
The whole situation was even more curious and bizarre than I thought at first. Maybe I was in some crazy dream or a fugue state. Perhaps this was all some fevered hallucination, and I was still back in the cottage, sick as a dog or even dying.
When I pinched myself, though, it hurt. I scowled and gazed off into the distance as the exit came up, instinctively putting on my blinker. When I was halfway down the ramp, something back up on the interstate caught my eye.
A jeep heading west.
So I wasn’t the only person out and about. I almost ran off the road in surprise, jammed on the brakes, and stared back at the interstate. It was empty, again. Whoever that was had just kept going. Maybe they were so caught up in their own thoughts that they’d missed me.
I still needed to get to the police station. The mission first, then I’d scour the area looking for others. I shook my head and focused, then straightened the truck and accelerated along the ramp to the intersection ahead. A powerless stoplight hung there, rocking gently in the wind. Once again, it amazed me at just how quiet and dead everything seemed without power or cars.
At least it wasn’t much further to downtown and the police station.
2
There was a single police car parked outside the station when I pulled up. I shut off the truck, slid out, and went over to look through the window. It was one of the newer ones, a Dodge Charger, fully outfitted for police requirements. Feeling almost guilty, I looked around to see if anyone was watching and tried the door.
Locked. Maybe that was a good sign. I straightened, adjusted my jacket, and headed up the stairs to the double doors and found them locked as well. That wasn’t such a good sign. I shielded my face and peered through the windows flanking the doors to see an empty foyer and offices beyond.
“Well, fuck,” I muttered to myself before pounding on the door and shouting, “Hello! Anybody in there?”
When no immediate answer came, I kept it up for a full minute or so while peering through the windows. Still nothing. With a sigh, I straightened up and looked around. My eyes scanned the dark windows and doorways of the nearby buildings, and I was reminded eerily of my time in Afghanistan, moving through territory where people hid and watched us pass.
I unconsciously put a hand on the butt of my pistol, then slipped off and circled the station. There were a couple of cars in the back lot, both empty and both locked. The other doors were locked as well, and I got no response to my pounding and shouting.
Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes later, I packed into my truck and headed on to my next target. There was a fire department not far away, and a medical center not much further than that. If there was no one to be found at either of those, then I wasn’t terribly sure what my next plan of attack was.
Likely I’d fire up the little backhoe I had and lay grandma to rest behind the big house. I sniffled a bit at the thought. Sure, I’d seen lots of trouble in my life. I’d buried my parents, my dad’s parents, and my mom’s dad. All I’d had left in the way of family was my grandma here and a few country cousins that I only saw at the annual reunions.
I hadn’t gotten on with them, really, ever since I returned from Afghanistan. They all wanted to hear my stories, especially the more violent ones, and how I’d gotten a Purple Heart. It made me a hero in their eyes, but the memories were painful as hell for me. After the first couple of times after I got back, I learned just to start avoiding people. I didn’t like doing that, but for my own peace of mind, I kind of had to. Some part of me always wondered about the fascination that so many people had with combat and death.
It wasn’t a long drive to the fire station, but I kept my eyes peeled, anyway. I hoped to see someone, anyone, out and about on the quest streets, but they were eerily empty. No traffic lights bloomed, no warm lights glittered from houses in the cold, gray light, and no people were out and about. It reminded me of
some of the empty villages I’d seen in the Middle East, only with less sand and rubble.
From a block away, I could see that one of the big roll-up doors into the vehicle bay of the fire station was open. There was still no sign of movement, and both trucks sat quietly in the shadowed interior. I parked my truck out of the way, disembarked, and went to the portal.
“Hello?” I yelled out. “Anyone here?”
A dog started to bark inside, and a moment later, a medium-sized, brown and white mutt bounced out from under one of the fire trucks and froze, then started to wag its tail as it bounded over the concrete to me and whined.
Other than the critters at home, this dog was the first living thing bigger than a squirrel that I’d seen since I left the farm. It barked again, looked up at me, then leaned against my legs.
“Hey there, fella,” I said and reached down and ruffled the dog’s fur. “Glad to find somebody out here. Where’s everyone else, huh?”
The dog looked up at me and panted happily, tail still wagging. It wore a blue, canvas, breakaway collar with a couple of tags. One was for vaccinations, and the other read ‘Charlie.’
“That your name, boy?” I asked the dog. “Charlie?”
He just looked up at me and wagged his tail, tongue lolling from his jaws. I ruffled his fur again and straightened. “Ok, Charlie,” I said. “Let’s see if we can find anyone else.”
After The Virus (Book 1): After The Virus Page 1
