“The bombs we heard. They were taking out the bridges. What does that mean?”
Grant stared at the debris, the absence of something they had taken for granted as they journeyed from one section of the city to the other. “To trap people, I suppose. Isolate the neighborhoods. Contain a virus that was uncontainable. Or maybe…just to destroy.”
It was only then that Lucy noticed the full extent of their city’s devastation. She could see the marina and capsized boats and the other vessels adrift on the Willamette River without a captain, unmoored and unanchored. Her eyes traveled to the tram—a bullet shaped vehicle that transported patients, doctors, and tourists to Oregon Health Sciences University. It was suspended above the trees, stopped midway up the track, and it swayed gently with the wind. Someone had written HELP in lipstick on the windows and a crack on one of the windows indicated someone had tried to break through the glass.
She looked away. With the horrors of the school still fresh in her memory, Lucy’s hand shook with the understanding that her own personal terrors were only one small glimpse, one small moment.
The ethereal quality of their ride, combined the visual confirmation of the mass genocide was overwhelming.
“This is like floating…up here,” Lucy whispered as they turned around 360-degrees, slowly, and her eyes surveyed the blue on the horizon and the glory of Mt. Hood in the distance. “All this beauty. Our world is so amazing…and yet…”
“I’m going to concentrate,” Grant interrupted and brushed by her back to the center of the basket. But he only stood there, his eyes outward, his arms by his side, his right hand clutching the bottle of shaving cream.
Lucy watched him and she bit the inside of her lip. “Can you imagine? If you’re a survivor and you look up in the sky today and see a hot air balloon floating past? It would be dreamlike, I suppose. Surreal.”
Grant didn’t answer.
“Grant?”
He didn’t turn toward her, but he lowered his head. “Survivors?” he called back. “This was done to us so there wouldn’t be any survivors. We aren’t meant to be here.” Then after a moment, he added. “No, well. Maybe I’m just not meant to be here.”
“Don’t say that,” Lucy said.
“It’s true, though,” he replied. Then after a moment, “What do you think we’ll find in Brixton, Nebraska?”
“Nothing, maybe.” She waited, then added, “Or everything.”
The balloon spun and drifted and Grant boosted them higher up. They followed the path of the river and at this height, the tragedies beneath them were easier to ignore.
“Thank you,” Lucy said after they had ridden in silence. He raised an eyebrow. “For coming with me.”
Grant set the shaving cream on the floor of the basket and rubbed his eyes with both hands. Then he smiled, his single-dimple appearing for a brief second. He reached his hand out and Lucy grabbed it. It was an awkward, sideways grab, and she felt how cold and clammy his hand was and the small tremors from his fingers vibrated against her palm. She gave his hand a squeeze and he squeezed back, pinching her fingers down upon each other.
“Together,” he said and his eyes scanned the horizon. “Whatever happens now…we’re together. You’re not alone. You need to know that, Lucy.”
She nodded, biting back tears. “Together,” she repeated. Then she closed her eyes and realized that she could not feel the wind or hear anything beside the hum of the balloon drifting effortlessly into the vast unknown. Lucy thought of her sister and her brothers and she saw their faces as she left them that fateful morning, poised and ready for adventure. Then she thought of her mother.
Strong. Resilient.
And waiting for her.
Lucy opened her eyes toward the horizon and intertwined her fingers with Grant’s and held his hand until she could no longer tell where her hand started and his hand stopped. With her other hand, she grabbed the crucifix and held it inside her palm, pulling the chain tight against her neck.
“Together,” she said again. “Wherever this takes us.”
“Whatever happens.”
“No matter what.”
END OF BOOK ONE
Acknowledgments
As a reader, I really love the acknowledgments page. It’s like a writer’s Academy Award speech, except no one can play you off with an orchestra and you are likely thanking people while you are still wearing pajamas instead of a fancy ball gown. And that’s the thing about writing; I can just tell you that I’m writing this in a beautiful bright yellow Oscar de la Renta dress and you could believe me. But you shouldn’t. I am clearly in sweat pants and a maple syrup stained t-shirt.
Here we go:
First of all, thank you Kevin. Thank you for hating every single book I tried to get you to read when you were in the 9th grade; thank you for your never-ending barrage of fourteen year-old opinions and your challenge disguised as an insult: “Ms. Wescott, I bet even you could write a better book than this.” Challenge accepted. I hope I did okay. Sorry it took four years, but I’d like to think this is a pretty unique graduation gift. Plus, I feel like I’ve offered you a very cool pick-up line for college girls, “So, my freshman Reading teacher wrote a book for me. You wanna go out?” Now that I wrote that down, I realize that you can probably think of better pick-up lines, but that is why I wrote a book about people dying of a virus instead of a book about pick-up lines.
To every other student of mine, past and present: I didn’t become a teacher because I liked to hear myself talk about The Great Gatsby. I went into teaching because I think there is something special and amazing and powerful about teenagers.
That little speech I give about being your teacher and your mother? It’s true. Thank you for indulging me by letting me name characters after you and for stealing gossip from your own life and giving it to the people in my fictitious high school. Thank you for being early readers and being honest about what worked and what didn’t work for you. Thank you for being excited about this and forcing me to finish when I was tired and didn’t think I had it in me. I’m especially grateful to the creative writing students, who inspire me with their own talents, and to the Talon staff who believed in me first.
Book Club: You are more than a book club. You are my best friends, my confidants, my support, my lifeline. You are readers and thinkers and you are my biggest cheerleaders; you challenge me personally and professionally and have proven that there is nothing in this world better than amazing female friendships. Without hyperbole I can tell you: I don’t know where I’d be without you all. I’ve decided that the best decision I can make in my life is protecting my time and my heart. Giving both of those willingly and without reservation or regret to you ladies is the best thing I’ve ever done. Thank you. Words are not enough. But from the bottom of my heart, thank you: Allison, Christy, Claudia, Lorrie, Melissa, Molly, Sunshine, Suzy, and Toni. (Special shout-out to Sunshine for forgoing sleep to give me honest feedback that forced me to admit my semi-colon problem.)
Nicole—we are the dynamic duo. Thank you for reading this first and championing publication. And thank you MOST for thinking of a title. Otherwise this would be called “Swimming Pool Full of Dead Teens” or “Trapped in a School with an Evil Principal” and no one would want to buy it ever. Your questions were the catalyst for major changes that made this book FAR BETTER than it was before and I am eternally grateful that I work with you and can call you a friend. Rana—your laughter and willingness to love me, despite knowing all my deepest and darkest secrets, is the best gift. Thanks for letting me put this book into your student’s hands. Thank you for being honest. Thank you for making me laugh.
(Is this where the orchestra starts? Don’t play me off! I have more!)
Mom and Dad: When I told you at age four that I wanted to be an “Arthur” and you thought that I meant I wanted to be an aardvark, but then you realized I meant “author”, you have always told me to go for it. You let me wake you up at 3am to read you things I was exc
ited about and you always pretended it was the best stuff ever, even though I’m pretty sure you were sleeping when I read it and only woke up when I asked, “What do you think?” Thank you for raising my brothers and me to be creative, musical, and passionate. Dad, thank you for the jazz music and the introduction to Science Fiction. Mom, thank you for reading everything I’ve ever written and thank you for reading other people’s books and saying more times than I can count, “You could’ve done that so much better” even when it was very clearly not true. But that’s what moms are for. Also, thank you for never censoring my reading material, especially when I was in junior high and all I wanted to do was stay up really late and read Stephen King books.
I will be forever grateful to Samantha Lynn for saying, “Um, my mom wants the next chapter right now” and it kept me writing. Thank you to Sam’s hotel bar at the Monarch for providing a mostly-quiet place to work without distraction. Thank you to all the screenwriters who write the amazing television shows and movies that get me excited to tell my own stories! Deborah Reed, thank you for offering me the encouragement I needed to try this publishing thing on my own. Thanks to Carin for your unbridled enthusiasm and I’m sorry I kept crashing your phone when I’d send you new chapters. And a huge thank you to everyone else—I have supportive and awesome friends. I don’t deserve you, but I’m grateful you exist.
Lastly (as they push me off stage): To my little family. Matthew, Elliott and Isaac. In the event of a disaster, we will be together—fighting side-by-side.
Actually, no, that’s inaccurate. I will fight and Matt will be the comic relief. Elliott, you are my gifted storyteller. My heart bursts with love and admiration whenever I listen to you tell me a story you created. You are my inspiration. Isaac, you are so funny and your snuggles make all my hard days better. You don’t understand why mommy is busy and doesn’t want you hitting the keyboard. I’m sure your additions would’ve been spectacular, but readers usually get confused when sdf;lksdf is in the middle of a sentence. I love you all. I am loved. I am blessed.
Foreword
Virulent: Stories is a companion text to the novel Virulent: The Release. It contains short stories from various character’s perspectives that occur within the scope of the first book of the Virulent Trilogy.
Each of the stories acts as a stand-alone narrative and can be read independently of the novel. However, they may (and do) contain spoilers to Virulent: The Release.
SALEM’S DAY – Portland, Oregon
Salem Aguilar pulled into her driveway with a reckless disregard for safety. She let her ancient Honda Accord bounce over part of the curb in front of their well-manicured lawn and avoided clipping the floral mailbox—spotted with hand-painted dahlias—by some inane, sheer stroke of luck. Slamming on her brakes, she threw the car into park and tripped outward, not even bothering to retrieve her school bag or shut the door. As she made her way to her porch, her car yelled in a steady tone, communicating with an incessant beep: “You’ve forgotten something; you’ve forgotten something.”
Her arms went to jelly as she gripped the silver doorknob of her front door. In a rush, her panic and her pain seemed to meld with the metal, and she didn’t know if she had the courage to face the world inside.
Her mother’s phone call unhinged her. She felt everything from her head to her toes unravel, the tendrils of her brain floating into a puddle on the porch, forever lost. She wondered if this was what grief felt like for everyone—a decimation of senses, a tunnel vision that focused on the hurt.
Bogart wasn’t just a pet.
To call him the family dog was misleading and insincere—he had been akin to her spirit guide, always nuzzling the crook of her neck when she was tense or pushing his body against her as she slept. A surrogate sibling, since her mother couldn’t bear any more children, Bogart took his role as brother and friend seriously. He’d been a rescue dog, chosen from among dozens of other droopy-eyed wannabes, panting out a message that Salem latched onto in an instant. I belong with you.
To hear that he was gone, just like that, in a heartbeat, wasn’t possible. She needed to see the lifeless pup for herself.
With a breath, Salem mustered every last bit of muscle strength and pushed her way inside the house. A wave of heat poured outward, and from inside the warmth, she could smell her mother’s cooking—rice, beans, homemade tortillas, the salsa verde made with the tomatillos and chopped jalapeños, the secret dash of Korean hot sauce (an addition that would make her abuela roll over in her grave if she knew).
“Salem? Estas aqui?” her mother called from the kitchen.
She followed the voice—pulled along by an unknown force, her body on a track, lumbering forward—until she reached the sweet-smelling, sticky room. Onions, peppers, and cilantro waited in matching porcelain bowls, and Magdalena, Mimi to her friends, rested against the counter, elbows bent, head in her hands, as though she were interrupted mid-chop with a bout of despair, overcome by the effort.
“You’re cooking,” Salem said. It came out more resentfully than she intended.
“I wanted us to eat well tonight. To mourn,” Mimi whispered. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and turned to her daughter. Her eyes were beyond puffy; they looked downright allergic with thick pockets of red skin that protruded from under her eyelashes. Salem wanted to reach out and poke them to see if they were squishy.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Papá is digging—”
“Ay dios mio,” Salem mumbled.
“He came home from work… to help…”
“I didn’t see his car.”
“In the garage.”
Salem walked to the back door and peered outward into the yard. Fruit trees lined up against their old oak fence in varying heights and states of growth. She could see the tiny, green buds of the cherries dotted against the rich, green leaves of their cherry tree. The cherries were ripe enough to eat right off the tree by Father’s Day, but it looked like they may fall early this year. She saw the tree as a chore. They had to pick it before the squirrels and crows cleaned them out. Afterwards, Salem had to stand over the sink and pit them all with an unwieldy plastic pitter. The cherry pies, homemade cherry breakfast tarts, and cherry jams were only a small consolation for the effort.
Late summer would bring pears. Thick, juicy Asian pears that were sweeter than anything hauled up from the Californian farms. Then came the apples.
Would fruit ever taste as sweet again? Salem banished the thought.
Papá Aguilar was hard at work digging at the base of the cherry tree. Five or six feet away from the small pit was a mound on the ground covered in a blue tarp, unmoving. Salem looked away.
She went to turn on the kitchen radio, but her mother slapped her hand.
“No,” she said. “Muchas malas noticias. I don’t want you listening to that.”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Salem said, and she turned away from her and marched to the television. Mimi was quick. She rushed across the room, her hip brushing against the dining room chair, and it caused her to oomph and grumble. Then she reached down and yanked the cord to the TV. The unplugged cord dangled outward in Mimi’s hands, and she dropped it with a dramatic flair.
“No,” Mimi said again. “Tonight is about our Bogey. Nothing more. Demasiadas muertes y la tristeza es malo para tu salud.”
“You can’t pretend that there’s nothing going on… I want to know more!” Salem argued because she knew she was right. The tragedy in their house was oppressive, but not isolated, and she craved an explanation. Her heart tugged for solidarity with those in mourning. A piece of her felt like it couldn’t be real until it was shared, experienced, and talked about with others.
But she also knew that she would not win against her mother’s stubbornness. Instead, if she slipped upstairs, she could check the computer or her phone. Her mother could not isolate her forever. She felt her cell buzz in her pocket and assumed it was Lucy, her best friend, checking up o
n her. It felt too cumbersome to try to talk to anyone in an authentic way, so she let the text go unanswered.
The words from her mom’s last phone call echoed in her head.
“You get home, right now,” her mother had insisted. “It’s not just Bogart. He’s not the only one. Todos los perros están muertos. All of them. The neighbors. That little spaniel down the street. You’ll see. The news… it’s starting to come in. Someone has poisoned our animals. Or something else is happening, sweet girl. Que Dios nos ayude. All the dogs are dead. Todos los perros estan muertos. All the dogs. All the dogs are dead.”
Thwunk. Thwunk. Thwap. The dirt hit the ground in a measured beat. Salem sat on her haunches by the tarp and watched as her father shoveled the soft earth to create a final resting place for Bogart. It didn’t matter if all the other dogs had passed away—the immediacy of Salem’s sorrow was focused on her own loss alone. She heard a plane rumble overhead; maybe the people on it were oblivious to the canine murders taking place beneath them, and she envied their potential blissful ignorance. Salem’s gaze wandered to the clouds above her. Altocumulus. She’d learned about them in elementary school science class during a lesson on the weather. Somehow, the term stuck with her. They were big, puffy masses, gray and shifting across the sky. She remembered the other thing her 5th grade teacher had told her about altocumulus clouds—a storm might soon be on its way. Salem laughed; the storm was here. Her dad shot her a confused look, and she realized the unprompted laughter seemed out of place considering the circumstances.
The plane disappeared into the clouds, the sound muffled, and it was gone.
Portland’s springs were soggy and cool, but Salem noticed the air felt heavy and thick—like the time she’d visited her cousin in Florida. She sucked in a shaky breath and returned her eyes to the grave.
“You don’t have to stay out here,” her father said. He paused and stuck the shovel into the ground; it stood upright without assistance.
The Virulent Chronicles Box Set Page 26
