The Pandemic Sequence (Book 1): The Tilian Virus

by Calen, Tom

  Jenni proved extremely helpful in finding the automobiles without having to correct any wrong turns. Shortly after reaching the SUV and minivan, the seven made their way back to the stone house, pausing intermittently to gather small branches and logs along the journey. The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky when they reached the shelter.

  Having been raised in the North, Mike was quite familiar with wood-burning stoves and immediately checked the flue for clogs and, finding no obstructions, lit a warming fire. With some hard-used cast iron cookware recovered from a cabinet in the room, Mike and Sarah worked together to heat up several of the canned goods the students had taken from the Chancer home. When the cooking was complete, he continued to keep the fire burning, not for any lack of warmth in the spring air but rather he knew the comforting effects a welcoming fire had on people. Even Gazelle had inched as close as she dared before curling up to sleep, stomach full with the food Mike had put down for her. Enjoying their first warm meal in days, the nine refugees sat around the table and ate with what could almost pass for happiness.

  What a difference four days makes, Mike ruminated over his can of beef stew. He had never expected to find such satisfaction in scooping warm stew into his mouth. He wondered what further surprises lay in the days ahead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As the days matured to weeks, Derrick Chancer retreated into even greater seclusion from the camp community. He now ate and slept in the tent that held the chained remnants of what was once Jenni Calente. His presence in the camp had become ghostly and peripheral. Mike had not spoken with the young man since their heated exchange of words two weeks earlier. In truth, he felt that there was perhaps nothing left to say. Both men had made a decision six months prior and now they had to accept the respective consequences of those choices.

  It was not a situation Mike desired, but he resigned himself to its seemingly inescapable authority.

  The last two weeks had also required the camp’s reluctant leader to focus his attention to the preparations underway for the departure south. Lisa Velazquez and her security team had managed to acquire one school bus and a number of smaller vehicles for the journey. The automobiles were in fair condition and could be expected to make the trip without failure. Gasoline was still a major concern for the camp, however. The years since the outbreak had seen many people using whatever ever gas they could find for transportation, heat, and cooking. It came as no shock when Lisa’s daily updates showed only small increases in the fuel reserves. Their best estimation placed the needed gasoline amount in the four hundred gallon range. Two weeks into the search and the camp could only claim possession of less than half of what it needed. Though neither Mike nor Lisa wanted to continue the search while on the road, unless their luck changed drastically in the coming days, that option seemed to be forcing itself on the camp.

  Where gas proved sparse, Michelle had far greater success regarding the food supply. The crates and boxes taken from the underground shelter would be able to feed the camp’s population for several months without concern. Mike had willingly upped the refugees’ daily rations slightly due to the extra physical effort everyone in the camp was exerting in anticipation of leaving the mountain settlement. The increase had also added to the heightened morale of the energized the camp.

  Paul Jenson, Mike understood, was also a major contributor to the community’s mood. Since taking over Derrick’s duties, the residents of the camp showed clear signs of relief as they now felt there was someone to truly help with the day to day management. Mike realized, much to his chagrin, that he had indeed waited too long to remove Derrick from the post. His attempt to spare the young man further pain had actually negatively impacted the population as a whole. Rather than eating their meals in their separate tents, many now gathered together in a large common area Paul had cleared and filled with as many spare seats he had been able to find. Mike had even taken to joining them for the evening meal. In nights past, he had preferred the quiet refuge of his own cabin, seeking to ease the dull ache in his head that came regularly after a day spent managing the camp. But—much like the other refugees—Mike’s constant tension seemed to ease over the preceding days. Though still not optimistic about the Cuban prospect, the rejuvenated atmosphere the other residents created had taken a positive toll on him.

  With the day’s work complete, he stepped out under the dusky sky. The mountain air was warm even at this height. Summer’s coming, he thought. As he made his way over to the common area, several refugees called out greetings to him. Pausing briefly to speak with each, Mike shared a hearty laugh when he stopped to talk with a small gathering of men who were responsible for the structural maintenance of the camp’s makeshift buildings. They regaled him with a story of the day’s events which had led to one of them, Jim Blournier if Mike recalled the name correctly, coming into unfortunate contact with poison ivy when he went to relieve himself during a wood-gathering trek into the woods.

  “That’ll teach ya to check what kinda leaves you’re grabbing next time,” howled Bill Demart, who served as the group’s foreman.

  Through his laughter, Mike spared a pitying look for the man who sat uncomfortably on a log, his desire to itch fighting with his reluctant amusement at his own predicament.

  “I think the doc has some creams. Check with him before you turn in for the night,” Mike instructed as he left the group and continued to the common area.

  Grabbing a plate from the stack of mismatched dinnerware, Mike ventured over to the large pots steaming with aromas that made his mouth water.

  “What are we having tonight, Alice?”

  Alice Johnson and her husband Marc were two of the older residents of the camp and had owned a very successful pair of restaurants in the Southern Kentucky area. From the moment they joined the camp, the meals had greatly improved. The two chefs had a remarkable talent for utilizing the camp’s minimal food and spice collection to make very savory meals.

  “Venison stew, chief. We found some dehydrated vegetables in the goods you brought back,” Marc answered. It seemed that Paul’s honorific for Mike had spread throughout the camp; Mike noticed more and more of the refugees addressing him as “chief.”

  “Well, it sure smells good, Marc,” he acknowledged. He thanked the man for the generous portion and turned to find an open seat. Across the crackling fire in the center of the cleared area, he saw his security chief wave him over. He took a seat with the small group comprised of Lisa, Paul, Andrew and Michelle. As he sat, Paul offered him a bottle of the mountain water collected from a stream near the camp.

  Mike enjoyed the company of those with which he now sat. The time in the camp had formed bonds among the community, but he and the rest of the council had focused so intently on their tasks that most conversations consisted of camp business. Now, however, the idle banter of daily living, discussions of memories and shared experiences, were a welcome relief from the work of running the camp. Since the installation of the common area, Mike eagerly looked forward to sharing his evening meals with those who had become his friends. There were moments, before settling in this most recent camp, that he doubted there could ever again be a time when he could simply relax with companions. Now he and his companions sat comfortably in the calming evening, lightly debating the merits of certain films.

  “Hands down, The Godfather is the best mob movie ever made,” Paul said. The former ranger began a comically poor impersonation of Marlon Brando’s character of Vito Corleone.

  “No way, man, Scarface is ten times better,” Lisa corrected, still laughing from the soft rasp Paul imitated.

  Mike interjected with his own favorite, “Yeah, but what about Goodfellas? The bar scene with Joe Pesci is classic!”

  The three elders of the group began re-enacting the humorous lines from the movie scene while Michelle and Andrew sat with blank amusement. Just twelve when the virus hit, Andrew had never seen the movies being discussed. Mike wondered to himself if the world would ever see
a new movie in a theater again.

  The moon loomed high on the blackened sky when the gathering dispersed and Mike found himself back in his small cabin. With a basin and half-empty jug of water, he washed the day from his face and stripped down to his underclothes before sinking into the soft sheets that covered his cot. His constant canine companion jumped onto the bedding and circled twice before finding a satisfying spot alongside Mike’s left leg Sleep found him easily that night, and when he woke he was pleased to note that no dreams had tormented him.

  With a sigh and a stretch, Mike rose from the cot and gave himself a quick shave over the basin, the cold water stinging his face and forcing him to full wakefulness. Donning his usual attire of jeans and t-shirt, he soon found himself at the small desk that had grown heavy with the journals discovered in the tornado shelter. Carefully pushing them to one side, Mike began to study the various maps that added to the clutter. Lisa had identified two routes south, the first employing use of the interstate systems, while the second relied more on back roads as much as possible. The latter option would certainly add more time to the journey, but the former risked a very visible trek across potentially clogged parkways.

  For the better part of the last two weeks, Mike and the council debated each route’s merits. As of yet, no consensus had been reached. He had listened keenly as the two factions of the council presented their respective arguments during meetings. He knew a decision deadline was drawing near, and given the deficient results of the fuel search, Mike was leaning to the more direct, and shorter, route. As soon as he was close to finalizing his decision, nagging doubt always gave him pause and forced him to refrain from an announcement as he re-weighed the options.

  In many ways, he believed the decision could prove to be the most critical one he would make as the camp’s leader. Feeling the now too familiar headache stirring in his skull, he was relieved when Lisa and Paul entered his quarters. The relief was short lived as he took in the serious expressions each wore.

  “Good news, I’m guessing?” he asked the pair.

  “Only if the definition of ‘good’ has changed a whole heck of a lot,” Lisa countered as she and Paul took seats opposite Mike.

  “We may need to speed up the departure,” Paul added.

  Lisa explained that one of the fuel search teams had returned moments earlier to report sightings of a massive number of Tils less than twenty miles from the mountain’s base.

  “How many?”

  “Several hundred, maybe a thousand. It was tough for my guys to get a solid count without risking notice.”

  Mike was stunned by the number. “Tils have never gathered in such a large group. And they certainly have never scavenged across miles.”

  Dr. Marena’s research had shown that once a person became infected with the virus, the victim’s sympathetic nervous system suffered serious disturbances. The fight-or-flight response in humans reached extremes in the Tils. Without stimulus, they tended to remain docile. Yet once agitated, rage and aggression soared to uncontrollable levels. The predatory urges only ceased when the stimulus was removed, thus allowing the infected to return to a state of docility. Other findings of the last few years indicated a proclivity to scavenge within a small range of one or two miles. Though not completely solitary beings, most dens Mike and the refugees had discovered consisted of small numbers. Only a stimulus would attract numbers like they had seen at the hospital weeks earlier.

  “Could they have followed us out of the city?” Paul asked.

  “It’s possible,” Lisa replied. “But that would be highly unusual for them. We’re talking about a several mile chase over weeks. Tils have always given up once their prey was out of range.”

  “Are they following something else?” Mike wondered aloud.

  Shaking her head, Lisa replied. “Not that my guys could see. And the Tils didn’t seem frenzied, just walking steadily down the turnpike.”

  “How long until they reach the mountains?”

  “A few days, maybe a bit more.”

  “And the camp?” Mike asked. “How vulnerable are we?”

  He could see that Lisa had already assessed the situation and was prepared for the obvious questions he posed.

  “Assuming they’re headed for us, and assuming they make it up the mountain, and those are big ifs, Chief, then I’d say we’re pretty vulnerable. Our numbers and weapons can hold off many, but any prolonged fight will attract more Tils. And our people will need rest, something I’ve never seen the infected require when they are in their frenzy. We might be able to survive two days, three at best.”

  * * *

  “So that’s the situation, folks,” Mike said, concluding his speech to the camp. He had continued to speak with Lisa and Paul for another hour before calling the council together. It had quickly been decided that the entire camp needed to be updated before the inevitable rumors made the already bleak situation even worse.

  With the news of the approaching horde, the council determined that the refugees would begin to make their way south within the next five days. The decision on which route to take was no longer in question as the council agreed that the faster they could put miles between the refugees and the infected the better. Mike hoped that a two-day head start and the more direct route of the interstate would be enough to avoid the veritable army of Tils.

  He could see the worry stamped clearly on the faces of the refugees that gathered before him, however he was not surprised to see numerous backs stiffen with a resiliency he had become used to seeing among them. None of them could have lasted six years without having proven their fortitude time and again. Mike hoped that their courage would continue to see them through the coming days.

  The crowd soon dispersed and set about the tasks he had gone over in his announcements. The next days would necessitate a hasty loading of supplies into the vehicles that had been acquired for the journey. More time would have allowed Lisa’s teams to perhaps locate more automobiles, but with what they currently possessed, the refugees and supplies would fit, if being somewhat cramped, for the trip.

  The camp quickly sprang to life as people began forming groups to transport the supplies down the mountainside. Others packed clothing, toiletries, and the like into duffle bags and suitcases that had been scavenged over the years. Surprised, Mike even saw the good doctor pitch-in with the efforts. Normally one to stay buried in his research, the man had made the least attempt to assimilate into the camp after he joined them.

  As the others engaged in their tasks, Mike found himself standing outside the tent everyone else in the camp avoided. He envied the uncomplicated tasks on which the camp’s residents were now focused. His own task was far from simple. Yet, he had been unable to find ground to disagree with the council’s decision in the matter. Mike sighed deeply, the action mixed with regret and inevitability, as he took the remaining steps inside the small tent.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You’re up early,” Sarah Weyland said, announcing her presence in the lifting mists of early dawn. She joined him on the fallen tree Mike now used as a bench.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, accepting the steaming mug she offered him.

  “It’s no Starbucks,” she responded, “but it is coffee at least.” Over the past two days Sarah had worked wonders in the small kitchen area of the stone cabin. Even with the few supplies taken from the Chancer family, she had been able to create warm meals for Mike and the children. As he thanked her, the two gazed out over the vista before them. The sun, still on its ascent, had lit the morning enough to see the deep canyon below and the wild trees that seemed to stretch to the heavens.

  “You know, I can probably count the times I’ve actually seen the sunrise, but, it seems different now,” he said. He sipped from the mug and the strong, black brew spread its comforting warmth throughout his body.

  “When Andrew was first born he was a difficult sleeper. My husband worked nights back then, so I would sit in a rocking cha
ir and just hold him as I tried to get him to fall back asleep,” Sarah reminisced. “I was a young mother, and didn’t have a clue what I had gotten myself into. But sitting there, rocking him in that chair, no matter how scared I was, every time I watched the sun rise with this amazing little creature drifting to sleep on my shoulder…all the fear and doubt just seemed to wash away.”

  Mike considered her words as the two sat in a prolonged silence watching the last beautiful moments of the sun’s rise into the sky. The magnificent colors of dawn soon faded and merged into a cloudless blue. He could hear the stirring from the cabin as the adolescents within roused from their slumber.

  “I’m going to take a couple of the kids into town today to see what supplies we can find,” Mike said as he stood from the make-shift bench.

  Laughing as she followed him to the stone structure, Sarah responded. “I’d give you a list, but we pretty much need everything.”

  * * *

  The drive into the nearby town was free of any interaction with the infected. Mike began to wonder if the virus would eventually be fatal to its victims. It could all be over already, he thought without conviction. Though the last two days had been spent in and around the stone house at the campground, and there had been no sightings of infected during that time, Mike was still hesitant to trust that perhaps the worst was over.

  The warm spring weather had begun to aid the decomposition of the bodies that lay along the roads and sidewalks. Though most corpses had seen flesh and muscle stripped to the bone, a few of the carcasses had remained intact and were now showing the first signs of maggots. As the small SUV rolled quietly into the parking lot of a grocery store, Mike began to realize that the corpses rotting were mostly those of fallen infected. They don’t eat their own, he made the mental note.