The Pandemic Sequence (Book 1): The Tilian Virus

by Calen, Tom

  “Yeah, that sounds like a much better idea for me,” Mike laughed as he took the weapons into his hands. Expecting a greater weight, he was surprised as he lifted the guns, estimating the weight to be between two and three pounds. While he practiced removing and replacing the longer magazines, Derrick provided him with two hip holsters that snapped easily over his belt.

  Days earlier, Mike would have declined the opportunity to possess firearms. Having grown up in the North, he had never been exposed to the pleasure and sport his new Southern friends had experienced while being raised in hunting families. He liked to consider himself a gun-control advocate, but now with the weapons holstered at his hips, he felt a greater sense of protection and confidence than he had expected.

  As the automobiles were being loaded with the basement arsenal, he thought a third vehicle would serve their interests better. Heading in to the garage, he discovered that the Chancers had left a smaller red SUV behind. Derrick informed him that the mini-truck ran well and tossed him the keys from the kitchen counter. The extra car allowed the students to have more space, and provided additional room for the weaponry.

  Two hours after their arrival, the students were freshly showered and a large majority of the weapons, as well as some various canned foods, had been loaded into their transports. Derrick asked for an extra minute in order to leave a note for his parents telling them he was safe and headed north to the army base.

  The three automobiles slowly made their way along the gravel driveway and turned back onto the narrow back road. Driving the red SUV, Mike led the caravan at a steady pace, hoping to reach the parkway without any difficulties. Though his eyes were scanning the surroundings as he drove, his thoughts wrestled with how and when he would tell the young Chancer boy about the shredded bodies of his parents that Mike had discovered in the garage.

  * * *

  The cars wove their way through the many obstacles in the streets. The abandoned vehicles told the tale of the panic and frenzy that had most assuredly ensued when the infected had begun to attack. Mike tried to ignore the sounds of crunching bone and flesh when the many bodies that littered the path could not be avoided.

  Soon, the convoy rolled steadily down his own street. The houses of neighbors stood vacant, the neighborhood resembling a ghost town more than the once thriving residential community it had been just days earlier. Through the rearview mirror, Mike could see the horde of infected in the distance that followed after the three cars. On his left, he saw the familiar mailbox he checked daily upon returning home after a day’s work. The small, gray home sat twenty feet off the road, its short driveway allowing space for two cars. As the front door became visible beyond the large tree in his front lawn, Mike was startled to see four tattered forms throwing themselves against the entrance. Over their howling, Mike could hear a familiar sound. Acting on instinct, he slammed on the brakes and leapt out of car. Guns at the ready, Mike began firing and the four infected fell just as he reached the wooden steps leading to the front door. With a fierce kick of his left leg, the door crashed open and a gray flash of fur exuberantly jumped in circles around him.

  “Hey, girl,” he soothed as he crouched down to return the greeting of Gazelle, the small terrier he had adopted two years ago when he first moved to Tennessee. Scooping her up in one arm, Mike quickly grabbed a small bag of food from the kitchen cabinet and headed back out, pausing for a second to remove the short leash that hung on a hook by the door. Racing back to the car, he could see that the infected that followed them had grown in number and were now only a hundred yards down the road. Sliding back into the driver’s seat, Mike passed the dog to Michelle, who sat to his right. As the vehicles resumed motion, Gazelle, with tail wagging and tongue licking, still brimmed over with excitement. Mike knew that it had been a foolish risk, one that endangered the students in his care, but in the moment he had been helpless to his instinct to save the beloved pet from the rapacious appetites of the infected.

  Though clearly stunned by his hasty departure from the car, the students now played gleeful with the attention-loving canine. Mike found himself smiling as he listened to the cooing of the passengers with which he travelled. The paradox was not lost on him as he observed the students, each armed with guns, as they giggled like children, passing Gazelle back and forth between them.

  Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or maybe the enjoyment of seeing the students’ excitement, but the entrance to the parkway appeared before them faster than Mike had expected. Glancing into the mirror, he saw the other two vehicles following closely, and all three made the gentle left-hand turn towards the on-ramp.

  While not as bad as he had feared, the parkway was a jumbled web of cars and trucks as far as the eye could see. Most sat idly with doors thrown wide as the occupants had attempted to escape on foot. Frighteningly common now, Mike barely noticed the numerous bodies that lay strewn about. Instead his eyes were drawn to the hundreds of figures that milled aimlessly, some standing upright, while others crouched, greedily feeding off a human carcass.

  With his foot on the brake pedal, Mike revved the car’s engine in an attempt to inform the other two drivers of what was expected of them. Receiving a thumbs-up from Derrick in the minivan behind him, he released the brake and the small SUV lurched into motion. Blurred forms bounced wildly as the car crashed into them. Knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel tightly, aiming for the open spaces between the abandoned automobiles. Maneuvering onto the emergency lane which held far fewer mechanical obstacles, Mike glanced down at the speedometer as the red needle glided past first sixty, then seventy miles per hour. In the mirrors, he could see the two other vehicles still following closely behind.

  In the distance ahead, he saw what appeared to be an over-turned tractor trailer, its hulking mass sitting sideways across the three lanes of the parkway. The emergency lane was entirely blocked with cars that had attempted to go around the disabled truck.

  “Hold on!” he shouted.

  The back end of the vehicle fish-tailed wildly when the smooth pavement changed to soft, wet grass as Mike veered the car off the road. More bodies slammed into the front grill as he struggled to maintain control of the car’s direction.

  “Mr. Allard, look!” Michelle screamed as she pointed towards the fast approaching tractor to the left.

  Removing his eyes from the road briefly, Mike could see the outlines of four forms standing atop the over-turned trailer. What appeared to be a man and woman with two small children at their sides, waved manically at the three car caravan he was leading down the parkway.

  “Dammit,” Mike muttered, plans racing through his mind.

  Chapter Ten

  With a concerted effort, Mike, Pete, and Sara had managed to transport the supplies from Sub-Level 5 to the back of the building ahead of schedule. Sitting on unopened boxes of canned goods, the three conversed casually—the topic, of course, being the possible salvation offered in Cuba.

  “Wanna bet that Castro is still alive and kicking?” Pete joked. For decades, the Communist dictator seemed impervious to all attempts at removing him from power. The idea of a surviving government system, communist or otherwise, was something Mike had not yet pondered. The American government had crumbled quickly after the outbreak. He recalled the final broadcast of the then-Vice President, urging patience and composure. It was the last vestige of executive law and order the country had known. The days that followed witnessed a steady decline into chaos, distrust, and isolationism. A once civil country by most standards had turned into a wildly barbaric, unforgiving wasteland.

  As Mike kept an attentive ear tuned to the sounds of returning companions, his mind mulled through the possibility of an actual government, fully functioning, and supported by citizens that lived and worked as they had before the virus. The concept seemed so foreign to him now, having spent so much time surviving in that wasteland.

  Though the refugee camp could only be described as rag-tag at best, the survivors had esta
blished basic ground rules aimed towards ordered cohabitation. Mike was understandably proud of the community he had helped create, but faced with the possibility of a truly prospering civilization, he began to realize how truly lacking the camp was. The brief time in the complex below, with its electricity and hot water, reminded him of the necessities the camp still lacked. The small, portable generators that provided minimal power were abandoned during the Tilian attack on the second camp. Since then, the refugees had survived as Neanderthals with only the advanced technology of fire.

  The three continued to humorously debate the seemingly indestructible force that was Fidel, when the distant rumble of car engines sounded through the metal doors of the loading dock.

  “Showtime,” Mike said as he hopped from his seated position, drawing one of his weapons with his right hand. His left rested on the handle of the door, waiting to heft it open when the sounds seemed close enough, while Pete prepared to open the second door. Three short blasts of a car horn signaled the arrival of the others and with simultaneous effort, the two men lifted the heavy doors. As instructed, the four who had retrieved the vehicles stood poised behind open truck doors, taking aim at the throng of Tils that were pouring into the alley.

  Shots echoed off the concrete walls, as Mike, Pete, and Sara quickly began loading the opened hatchbacks of two Suburbans. He had worried that some of the supplies would need to be strapped to the roof of the vehicles they returned with, a time delay he did not wish to be forced to concede. But Paul and the others had chosen well, and the massive SUVs easily accepted the numerous boxes.

  “Grenade!” shouted Lisa, giving the others warning to expect the rocking boom that would follow. Her strong, battled trained arm hurled consecutive grenades into the Til mass. Explosion followed explosion as dozens of infected were torn apart by the blasts.

  Minutes dragged on, and Mike could feel his strength depleting as he lifted the heavy boxes into the trucks. The deafening roar of gunfire and explosions filled the small alley, and reverberated through the cavernous interior of the loading dock. He could see Pete and Sara faltering under the strain of their exertion. By sheer force of will, his body continued lifting and stacking, each movement bringing him closer to collapse. His muscles screamed in protest as he shifted the last remaining supply boxes into the now-filled truck. Fighting his body, he rushed over to the second bay and aided Pete and Sara with the final boxes. Their task complete, the three vaulted from the loading dock and quickly piled into the idling Suburban.

  With a shout, Mike signaled to the four engaged in laying down the suppressing fire. Hearing his call, Paul swiftly backpedalled and took his place behind the wheel, while Lisa jumped into the passenger seat. Andrew and Jon repeated the action with the second SUV. The mammoth automobiles sped forward and tore through the Tils before them.

  The sounds of the skirmish had attracted more Tils than Mike had expected. The hundreds that had surrounded the hospital several blocks away had followed the racket and been joined by twice their original number. Even with the formidable horsepower of the Suburbans, the thick mass of Tils forced the vehicles to slow to a steady crawl. An endless tide of infected cascaded over them, pounding on roof, hood, and windshield. Violent images of the loss of Tim Cornell that had marred the start of the mission screamed in Mike’s mind.

  “Cover me,” Lisa commanded from the seat in front of him. Raising a shotgun as she dropped her window, she shot two blasts that shattered through the Tils. Mike lifted his twin side-arms, shot out his own window and used the weapons to keep the infected that swarmed around the left side of the truck at bay. From his periphery, he saw Lisa pull herself through the open window until she sat along the door frame. Armed with the last two grenades, she strategically tossed them into the crowded street in front of the SUV. Seconds later, two explosions cleaved a twenty-foot long opening ahead. Hoping to build enough momentum, Paul floored the gas and the truck barreled through a thick wall of Tils.

  With Lisa safely returned to the interior of the truck, Mike looked behind them and was relieved to see the second Suburban breaking free of the attacking horde. As he looked out the rear window, he saw a bloodied, bare foot dangling from the roof above. Raising his guns, he emptied the magazines of their remaining bullets, tearing through the roof as he did. The bodies of two infected crashed to the ground behind the truck and rolled wildly under the powerful tires of the second truck.

  The immediate danger now past, Paul glanced over his shoulder and said, “You didn’t tell us you wanted a sunroof, too, chief.”

  The city slowly receded from view as they travelled the twenty mile stretch back to the base of the mountain. As he watched the buildings grow smaller with each mile, Mike began to wonder if he would ever see it again. He had called Tennessee home for over eight years, two of those years spent in much happier times. True, most of his life he had lived in the North, but the state represented his first step towards independent adulthood. He had gone from his parents’ home immediately to a college dorm. Once he graduated and settled here, he began to build connections with neighbors and bonds with friends that he had hoped would last a lifetime. He had believed that his evolution to maturity and the shrugging off of the last remnants of childhood naiveté would begin once he struck out on his own. Of course, he had not expected how quickly that evolution would have to occur prior to the outbreak. With a nostalgic sigh, Mike turned his mind to the future and said his silent farewell to the place that, for better or worse, had cultivated the man he was today.

  * * *

  The Suburbans reached the base of the mountain as the waning sun reflected its pink and oranges hues on the white hoods of the vehicles. It had been decided that they would bring the trucks as far up the path as possible and finish the rest of the journey up the narrowing trail on foot. With luck, the seven refugees could reach the mid-point and pitch camp before the full dark of night fell.

  As Mike and the others worked to camouflage the trucks with branches and leaves, Paul removed various parts of each engine in an effort to make theft of the vehicles and their contents significantly more challenging to any interlopers that might happen upon them. Satisfied that the trucks and supplies were as secure as time allowed, the seven refugees began their hours-long hike.

  Mike had been so consumed with the rescue and escape from the city he had been forced to detach himself from what awaited him at the camp. The lieutenant had looked barely alive from the massive amount of blood he had lost, his wound had reached down to the bone. Mike had grown to trust the old veteran implicitly. The man’s gruff nature had been irksome at first, but Mike soon came to understand that he would always get honest feedback from the lieutenant. The security team was mostly comprised of soldiers that had served with Steven Olinder, the rest he handpicked from the camp and trained himself. While not impenetrable, the site was quite well secured thanks in large part to the man’s military experience. Selfishly, Mike worried that Olinder had not survived his wound. If the camp was to head south, they would need that experience to survive the journey.

  The sun set an hour before they reached the small camp, the exhaustion of recent events had slowed their progress. Near collapse, the group ate quickly, more out of habit than any real hunger, and soon Lisa and Andrew took the first watch as the rest faded into sleep. After a few short hours, Mike was gently roused from his slumber so that he could take the last watch with Pete Marshall. Groggily, he positioned himself against a large rock, the brief rest doing little to alleviate the ache in his muscles. He always preferred to take the last watch on missions. In the sadness and rage of the world, he was still able to enjoy the few moments of beauty as the sun crested over the mountains. Its warming rays caressed him, body and soul, and provided a greater relief than rest. With the ever changing chaos in which he lived, the constancy of the sun breathed a sense of life and hope. He relished those too brief moments as the world came to life each day.

  Remorsefully, Mike stood in the early morning da
wn and proceeded to wake the others so that the final leg of their journey home could commence. The trail steadily rose upwards as they hiked, the passage growing increasingly dense with trees. Though eager to return, he also felt the familiar mental exhaustion return as they neared the camp. He had always wanted to be a teacher, spending his days in a classroom sharing with students his love of history. Many of his peers, however, had been working towards advanced degrees in hopes of becoming a school administrator.

  That path had never interested him, though. The duties of a principal had always seemed to him both tedious and daunting. A classroom required him to focus on small groups, whereas leading an entire school was an educational responsibility he had never craved. Now—six years later—he found himself carrying the heavy weight of being responsible not for others’ education but for their very lives.

  Even with the extreme danger and stress an excursion away from the camp, Mike still felt more comfortable in action. The camp’s requirements often enveloped him in an oppressive melancholy. There had been days over the last few years that he had thought about simply disappearing into the darkness of night. Yet his sense of duty always overruled and he remained as the leader he had never sought to be. He understood the others’ optimism in going south. It was something he had felt many times over the years. In the beginning, he had longed to find a place of solace, a place where someone else could take charge and make the determining decisions. After the military base, and the other false glimmers of hope that followed, he had relinquished his optimism and surrendered to his fate.

  The loss of so many lives as the survivors chased after each broken promise made Mike leery of salvation. It wasn’t until Paul and he had spoken in the tornado shelter, that he realized that perhaps his flagging spirit was hindering the futures of the camp’s refugees. The realization gnawed at him. Maybe it’s time to leave them? his thoughts echoed without reply.