Origins of the Outbreak

by Brian Parker

  When he turned around, that asshole Jake was standing beside the steps. He swayed drunkenly but didn’t fall over. “Bar’s closed, Jake. Go home.”

  “Unghh…,” Jake replied.

  “Come on, man. I don’t need this shit, get out of here.”

  Jake took a hesitant step towards him and said, “Unghh.”

  “Dude, you’re so drunk that you can’t even talk. I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t leave.”

  Sean shined his light up towards the drunk’s face and staggered backwards. “What the fuck happened to you, Jake?”

  He was covered in blood; absolutely coated in it, like he’d rolled around in the dead dog’s blood or something. Sean recovered quickly and began to examine him. Jake was missing an ear and had several large lacerations on his face. Stupid bastard must have stumbled out into the road and gotten hit by a truck.

  “I’m gonna call you an ambulance, hold on!” Sean said as he rushed towards the pub. He didn’t own a cell phone, so the bar’s line was the only way that he’d be able to get 9–1–1 on the phone.

  The movement seemed to galvanize Jake and he lunged out, catching Sean’s arm and yanking him backwards.

  “Hey, man, cut it out! I’m trying to help you!” he squealed.

  “Unghh,” Jake replied before he pulled Sean’s arm to his mouth and bit down hard enough to break the soft skin at the crook of his elbow. Crimson blood erupted around Jake's mouth.

  “Jesus Fucking Christ, Jake!” Sean yelled and tried to jerk his arm away.

  When that didn’t work, he kicked Jake hard in the nuts, but the guy showed no emotion. “Stop it!” he squealed.

  The drunk pulled his head away from Sean’s arm and ripped a strip of flesh away while he still held onto his wrist in a vicelike grip. He chewed the length of skin and tilted his head thoughtfully, regarding Sean.

  “Holy fuck!” the manager whimpered and drew his gun. It didn’t even faze Jake and Sean knew what he had to do. The kid was obviously high on bath salts and history had proven that the only way to stop a junkie on that shit was to kill them.

  Sean shook his bleeding arm to try and dislodge Jake, but it was no use. He turned his head and squeezed the trigger. The gun’s report shattered the night and lit up the area with a bright flash.

  Jake dove back in and bit into his bicep. “What the hell!” he screamed in pain as the teeth began to tear into the muscle.

  The pub’s manager didn’t turn his head this time and fired directly into Jake’s chest. It worked. The man’s teeth were dislodged and he stumbled backwards half a step.

  Sean fired again at Jake’s midsection and was rewarded with another retreat. He started to congratulate himself, but his vision got blurry around the edges. He lifted his arm in front of his face to see the damage in the poor light. Veins and arteries were severed across the inside of his elbow and bright red blood spurted into the night.

  “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, what the fuck,” he moaned and got weak in the knees. His impaired vision darkened further and his right leg gave out on him completely.

  Sean collapsed and watched Jake advance towards him in horror. He weakly raised the pistol and emptied the magazine into the man. Each round smashed into him and tiny red spots blossomed where the bullets hit, but they no longer bothered him like the first two had. The illness had fully taken hold of him now.

  Jake lunged across the short distance and grabbed both sides of Sean’s head. His eyes crossed as he helplessly followed the drunk's mouth towards his nose. The bar manager screamed as he was devoured and the residents who were still awake in Belton closed and locked their windows against the night.

  The next morning, the owner of Flannigan’s would spend hours trying to reach Sean in a useless effort to determine why the pub had been left unlocked overnight.

  DAY TWO

  The Baker, 4:30 a.m.

  The oven’s timer went off and Robin pressed the button to silence it then peered through the window to judge her work. The bagels were the perfect golden brown and it was time to take them out.

  She unlocked the door and opened it. She’d learned in the past to wait a few seconds to let the heated air in the walk-in oven escape. While she waited she slipped on the large oven mitts and walked inside. She grasped the rolling baking rack firmly and pulled hard to get it started. Once the hooks on the top of the rack got past the notch on the rotating bar that was suspended from the ceiling, then it would roll gently down the ramp.

  The rack came out of the oven and she rolled it to the side. Then she turned to another rack of bagels and removed the plastic bag over the top which helped the yeast in the bagels rise. She shoved that rack inside the oven and closed the door, setting the timer for thirteen minutes before she went back to setting frozen pastries on trays that slid into a baking rack. Once the pastries were warmed to room temperature under the plastic bag, they’d be ready to go into the oven.

  Robin had worked at the bagel and pastry shop for more than two years. She started right after she graduated high school and her father told her that he couldn’t afford to send her to college, even though she’d been accepted to the University of Texas in Austin. She grew up in a well-off cattle family, but years of droughts and bad farming decisions had pretty much bankrupted her parents, but the federal government didn’t see it that way. When she applied for student loans, her family’s gross income was too high to qualify for anything. They didn’t even bother to ask where the “income” went – it all went towards the farm – they just disqualified her outright.

  So she did what any proud Texan would do, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. In the two years, she’d saved enough money to pay for the first three years in one of the smaller UT-affiliated schools, but only enough for the first year at the main UT campus. When Robin saw the price difference and thought about how hard she’d worked – both at this job and as a waitress during lunch at the diner – she couldn’t justify going to the larger school. In the end, she’d have her degree and most people wouldn’t care where it came from.

  She thought about her list of chores to do this morning once her shift ended at the bakery, but before it started at the diner. She needed to go to the bank and deposit her check and she had to go pay her water bill. Otherwise, she had the remaining four hours between shifts all to herself. She sidestepped over to check the cinnamon rolls that she'd pulled out of the oven fifteen minutes ago. She always gave them an initial spatula of cream cheese icing right when they came out of the oven – that allowed the gooey consistency that the customers had come to expect – but once they cooled she used a thicker traditional icing to make the raised lines of sugary goodness that the bakery was famous for.

  By the time she was done with the cinnamon rolls, the alarm was once again going off for the new batch of bagels to come out of the oven. A noise at the front door startled her and she whipped her head around to see Babbette tapping on the window. Robin smiled at her and walked around the counter.

  Babbettewas the morning setup employee for the bakery. She'd spend about an hour or so placing all the pastries, bread and bagels that Robin had baked overnight into the bakery cases. The baker unlocked the glass door to let her in. “Good morning, Babbette.”

  “Hey,” the older woman replied. “I don't know what's good about it.”

  “What do you mean? The weather's nice and mild, the birds are singing-”

  “The cops are keeping me up,” Babbette interrupted her.

  “Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Sucks. Why were the cops out?”

  “I don't know. They were running all over town last night. We tried to see if the radio would say anything, but they only played music. I'm just tired and cranky,” she smiled slightly, which was about all Robin had ever been able to get her to do. “You're right; it is a pretty morning out.”

  Robin made sure to lock the door behind Babbetteand rushed back to the oven. She needed to get another rack in before she got behind. Delays in the shop had a way of bu
ilding up and before you knew it, the store would be open without all of the products available.

  She pulled the finished rack out and slid another onto the bar in its place. After she set the timer she grabbed her clipboard and walked towards the front door. “Hey, since it's such a nice morning, I'm gonnago sit outside to go over my inventory sheet,” Robin told the woman behind the counter. “I should be back in time, but if I'm not, just tap on the window and let me know that the timer is going off on the bagels.”

  “Okay,” Babbettereplied. She'd already begun to place the products in the display cases and was in her zone. Robin knew that the woman liked her, she just had a limited time to do her pre-opening work and wasn't much of a talker.

  She unlocked the front door and walked outside. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was still a couple of hours off from rising and it wasn't supposed to be nearly as hot today as it had been so far this early in the summer. The bakery had a few sets of cafe tables out front and Robin could see her paperwork by the light coming from inside the building. She gratefully sat down to begin double-checking her product inventory sheet. Before any item was baked, she had to prep it and mark off on the sheet that it was either thawing or in the proofer, which was a low-heat, high humidity machine that gradually warmed the dough and allowed the yeast to activate. Then, after every item was baked she had to verify that it was accounted for and that she hadn't missed anything. This was her most important check before she cleaned up and went home for the day; if she missed something, then the bakery would be out of product until it could be prepped and baked by the morning manager when he got there. Plus, it made her look bad and her Daddy hadn’t raised her to accept that.

  Robin was about halfway through her inventory when a noise in the darkness made her look up. It sounded like a flip flop, but she couldn't be sure. Nah, she thought, way too early for anyone to be out, probably just hearing things. She went back to her clipboard to count the trays of bagels that she'd baked.

  The soft flip-flap sound came again, but from much closer this time. She peered out into the dark parking lot and tried to see what the source of the noise was, but it was hopeless because the owner of the bakery refused to pay to have the parking lot illuminated overnight, so it was pitch black. Robin couldn't see anything in the darkness and lowered her head to work on the morning paperwork once more.

  Suddenly, the bakery's patio area erupted in a storm of movement and sound. Tables fell over, chairs were pushed out of the way and she scrambled towards the door. Whatever the hell was happening wasn't her concern until she could get inside.

  She almost made it, but a chair slid across her path and she fell over it. Robin felt rough hands grab onto her and in the dim light coming through the bakery's windows she saw a fat guy holding onto her ankle. She screamed for help, but the building's windows were soundproofed and Babbette didn't hear.

  Robin's screams for help quickly turned to screams of pain and panic as Rick gorged himself on the skin from her legs. She kicked ineffectually against him, but it was too late, the process had already started.

  Rick's saliva worked its way into her bloodstream and the changes began much more rapidly on the cellular level than they had for the first several victims. With every degree of separation from the original disease in Steven's blood, the illness evolved into a more efficient killing machine.

  The Sergeant, 5:25 a.m.

  Craig stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the hot water before continuing into the small room that contained the toilet. He leaned heavily against the damned cabinet that his wife had insisted that he mount on the wall above the toilet while he did his business.

  When he was done, he flushed and walked out to the sink where the water should be hot by now. He regarded himself in the mirror for a few seconds before he dipped his hands into the water to help soften up his skin for his daily shave. Nineteen years of shaving every morning in the U.S. Army had made his skin like sandpaper and he looked forward to one day soon being able to stop shaving for a little while. Hell, he'd even considered growing a beard once he finally retired.

  The razor made a soft scraping sound as it glided over his shaving cream-covered face. The expensive multi-bladed contraption that he used today was a far cry from the disposables of his early days in the Army. He hated shaving his neck; it was the worst part. He almost always nicked himself somehow. Craig had often considered getting some type of laser hair removal on his neck because he hated shaving it that badly.

  He finished hacking away the hair follicles and brushed his teeth before rinsing off the residue from his shave. Then he applied some deodorant and went into the closet to prep his bag for the day. He grabbed his uniform top and bottoms and folded them neatly into his duffle bag. With the utility uniforms that the Army wore these days, they could just be rolled up and put into a bag like he did now. Before the mid 2000’s the Army was all about starched uniforms that looked great, but couldn’t be wrinkled and were a pain in the ass. It was so much harder back then trying to carry a set of clothes on a hanger, highly shined boots, plus all the other crap that he had.

  After the uniform went a tan undershirt, a pair of Army-issue green socks and a pair of underwear. His boots were by the front door and he'd grab those on the way out. He had everything that he needed to get cleaned up and dressed after physical training. His daily prep routine – for nineteen long years – was complete. He slipped out of his sleeping clothes and put on his uniform for PT.

  The Army did PT, physical training, for about an hour every morning from 0630-0730. In addition to keeping the soldiers fit and ready to go, the reason they had it so early was for accountability purposes. Most bad things in the Army – hell, in life really – happened between 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. so the morning formation before PT was also to ensure that everyone had made it home safe from wherever they’d been the night before.

  It was Craig’s job, as a Sergeant First Class, to report the accountability of the thirty-five soldiers in his platoon. Even the lieutenant was his responsibility. Officers rotated jobs about every year, year and a half so they could be well-rounded, so he’d seen his fair share of new Second Lieutenants come through his infantry platoon over the years. The current butter bar was something of an enigma to him though.

  The kid was one of the most proficient infantry officers that he’d ever seen, but outside of work, Craig considered him a high-risk soldier. The guy drove to Austin every weekend and would disappear into a drunken stupor – unless there were work issues – and then he’d miraculously appear, clean-shaven and sober, ready to do whatever task was required. He’d heard through the grapevine that the lieutenant was an MMA fighter and loved to scrap with anyone willing to go, although there was never a blemish on him. Ahh, to be young again, he thought wistfully.

  Craig hefted his bag onto his shoulders and turned off the bathroom light before opening the door to kiss his wife and kids goodbye for the day. When he went in his daughter’s room, her sheets were gathered up around her feet so he carefully pulled them from under her legs and covered her up.

  As he walked down the stairs, the aroma of coffee filled the quiet house. It was nice to have it waiting for him when he came down instead of needing to make it and then wait for it to brew. The timer of the coffee pot saved him about ten minutes in the morning – ten minutes that he could use once he was on base to help gain accountability of everyone. He always had a slight pucker factor about Friday and Monday mornings. Mondays were obviously the biggie since they had to account for everyone after the weekend, but the dumb shit always seemed to happen on Thursday nights.

  Soldiers from Fort Hood would drive the twenty minutes to Belton to flirt with the girls at the university and inevitably the local boys would take offense. Craig had been stationed at Fort Hood for four years on this tour and it was a never-ending cycle. Sometimes he wished for the simplicity of Fort Irwin, California. It was the Army’s desert training facility and there was nothing within fifty miles of the post
, in any direction. Soldiers tended to not get in as much trouble when they were stationed out there – or at least the Army was able to handle things in-house because no other authorities were involved.

  The sergeant checked his cell phone again out of habit. No messages or missed calls from the night before were a good thing, so he poured his coffee into a travel mug. He lived in a small Belton neighborhood on the side of town closest to Fort Hood. He’d chosen to live farther away from work so his family didn’t have to deal with the drama of Killeen, the town right outside of Fort Hood. Killeen had almost two hundred thousand people in it, whereas Belton only had twenty thousand when school was in session. He liked the small town feel of the place and the bigger city was only a short drive away. Plus, Belton straddled Interstate 35. From the interstate, they could go north or south to anywhere in the country.

  As he started to reach for the front door handle a blinking red light at eye level reminded him to turn off the alarm. He’d made that stupid mistake before and the damn siren had woken up the entire neighborhood! He quickly tapped the six-digit code into the keypad and pressed the “off” button. It beeped quietly, letting him know that the system was disarmed.

  He opened and closed the front door quickly, but didn’t lock it behind him since he needed to take the trash out and then roll the outside trashcan down to the street before he left. It was a nice morning, the weather would be perfect for the six-mile formation run with the company that the commander did every Friday. There was a lot of siren activity somewhere towards the center of town that Craig guessed was probably near the university. The thought that one of his soldiers was in trouble in Belton crossed his mind quickly, but he pushed it aside. The odds that the problem in town was caused by one of his thirty-five Joes when there were almost forty-five thousand troops stationed at Fort Hood were astronomical.