The Virulent Chronicles Box Set

by Shelbi Wescott

  I’ve been a piss poor roommate and an even worse intermittent lover, so the least I can offer you is this piece of explanation and an opportunity to brace for the inevitable. Maybe it seems cruel to give you a glimpse knowing you can’t do anything to stop it, but I have to do it. For me.

  Fine. This is for me, not you, not because I think it can help my guilt. Your biggest complaint embodied in the last communication we ever have. Fitting.

  First, some confessions.

  In the fifth grade, I stole my father’s Playboy collection and read it and burned it. I don’t know why I burned it; I think I liked the symbolism of just erasing my shame to ashes. There was a lot going on there—embarrassment, anger. Regardless, my pyre spread to the walls of the shed and burned the whole thing down; the financial impact was negligible, but at some point my mom had decided to store three big boxes of baby pictures in the shed. Of course, in a pre-digital world, those pictures amassed to the only photographic proof of my childhood, and because I felt the need to hide my sin, I destroyed them. Of course, that was particularly injurious to my mom, who didn’t deserve any of it. My mother was pretty sure it was me who caused the inferno, but I denied it, and forced my best friend Greg say I was at his house all day. No one was punished, but I felt bad about lying for a long time. There were two nights when I overhead my mom crying about the pictures, and that solidified my resolve to keep the truth to myself. I didn’t even think about the lie until my parents died. Then it was all I could think about—that they died not knowing who caused the fire. I begged them to haunt me so I could set the record straight. Have you ever prayed to see a ghost? I begged for it.

  You and I have talked a lot about their accident, and I just can’t ever be happy again. It’s great that you don’t feel completely crippled by the death of your brother. Congratulations. Seriously. I mean that sincerely. But that’s not me. You say he made his choices. Is that the difference? He took his life, so you can reconcile that it brought him the peace he was seeking. My parents’ lives were stolen; there’s no way to reconcile that. I can’t ever be truly happy again… And it eats at me that they died not knowing I started that fire. How is that fair? Sometimes I pray and ask God to tell them that I started the fire. And that I lied about not driving the car prom night; and I paid Toby Thompson twenty-dollars to do my math homework so I wouldn’t fail pre-Algebra. I cheated on Susan, my college girlfriend. It was a kiss. And it was, truthfully, the best kiss I’ve ever had. Because it tasted like secrets and freedom and possibility.

  Also, you should know: I didn’t go AWOL and get dishonorably discharged because of a mental breakdown. I was fully, mentally capable, but I was done. Done working for our government and done seeing the hypocrisy of a soldier’s life and after you’ve killed someone, you wonder if you have to keep killing them in your head as punishment. Hell will be that: all the dead you’ve killed, inadvertently and on purpose. And they get to torture you. And after today, that number will grow. There will be so many people allowed to torture me. So many.

  But I’m off track.

  Thank you for taking me in when I didn’t have anything, I will always remember that as the single-most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me. Do you remember that night when we played at that park with the human-sized chess pieces?

  We listened to Radiohead and ate a picnic with warm potato salad and cold pizza, and you touched the freckle under my right eye and said that it wouldn’t be long until we fell in love and got married and did boring things like argue over drywall, so we should stay up all night to prolong the inevitable. You said maybe my freckle was like a button, and if you pressed it, we could stay young forever. I said I hated that freckle, and that didn’t make any sense anyway, and you got sad. Maybe you cried, but I don’t remember. I didn’t know why it made you sad, so I got defensive and said you always knew how to ruin an evening with your moodiness. Then you went and stood next to a giant pawn and said, “Your move, asshole.”

  Oh, but I get it now. You were mad because you had tried to tell me you were falling in love with me and I didn’t hear you. I see it now, and I’m sorry. I’m mostly sorry because I didn’t figure that out until after I had already signed over my life to do this thing I have to do. So, if we had fallen in love that night, maybe I wouldn’t be here, on the precipice of the end of the world. Maybe we’d be happily making love in some cottage on a lake, impervious to pain. Or maybe we’d be already gone from each other—in love and out of love as easy as pushing a button. Or a freckle. I don’t think love exists like you think it exists.

  Look, Heather, it’s like this: I miss my parents, and I’ve seen enough in wartime and peacetime (hell, on the street corners) to know that at some point you have to admit when things have gone off the rails. The world is off the rails. I find solace in the pain because it’s constant; and the only way I can imagine being different, not just ending it just for me, but [SCRIBBLED OUT]. No. I mean. My best dreams are when I wake up and I’m a different person with a different life. That’s the only way to fix this—new world, new life.

  I’m running Operation Release. You will already know about it, even if you aren’t aware of what it will do. In short: I’m controlling Drone T6, and by the time you read this letter, it will have already released a virus that is faster acting and deadlier than any virus you’ve ever heard of before. It will kill you. It will kill everyone. And if it doesn’t, don’t worry. There are suicide bombers and crashing airplanes and crazy trigger-happy jerks who will help us with the job.

  My reward? A home. In a new world. Where I can pretend that I’m in a dream, and I don’t have to wake up every morning to dead parents and your sad eyes, and the realization that I’ll never amount to anything.

  That chess night? We could’ve done anything, been anything—the future was ours. We didn’t slip into boring conversations about drywall, we did something worse: we believed that we had a purpose, we believed we could live with ourselves if we pretended to just be roommates with stupid jobs and superficial friends. If I had told you I loved you, we’d still be there, in that moment. I believe that. My freckle isn’t a magic spell and I’m not worthy of you. So, I have to do this because I believe that it will save me. It will save humanity. I’m off to save humanity from itself.

  When my parents died, the worst part was that I wasn’t with them. If you go, you should go with everyone you love. Wham. Bam. Together. That way no one is left behind to suffer the kind of grief we have. I’m being merciful, really, at the end of this. If there was a way to help curb some of the awfulness of the earth, don’t you think it’s worth a price?

  I’m saying goodbye to you. That’s my price.

  And you will die with all my secrets.

  Including these last two:

  I’m killing the world today.

  And I love you.

  But it’s too late for that.

  Check mate.

  Benjamin

  Acknowledgments

  In March, we bought a house.

  We sold our first house together and bought a new house. It has not been without challenges, but the main purpose of selling was to find a house that was big enough for me to have an office. My own writing den.

  A room of my own.

  How luxurious is that? I feel an embarrassment of riches in this regard, and every day I’m grateful that the Virulent trilogy nestled its way into your hearts.

  I’m just downright thankful for everyone who takes a chance on books. (BOOKS! All books! Everyone’s books!) I don’t know why you started to read Virulent – maybe you read post-apocalyptic and dystopian fiction voraciously, maybe someone told you that you’d like it, maybe you’re related to me. But the fact is: people read it. So much so, that I felt like there was a need and want for this little book of related stories. And the sheer awesomeness of that fact is not lost on me.

  I’d like to thank my usual suspects (my book club; my family; the best husband ever; my kiddos; my students; my amazing friend
Nicole: even though she took another job and left me all alone; and Rana, who can tell just by looking at me that I need a hug), with an extra dose of gratefulness to Toni for her crucial feedback and Cynthia Shepp for her amazing editing prowess. To Juan Rios and Maria De Jesus Bello Peña: thank you for translating and fixing my Spanish. It would’ve really taken the power out of the moment if Salem kept screaming, “POTATO” while her father died.

  Lastly, to each and every student I have had the privilege to teach in my journalism and creative writing classes. Since this might be my last semester teaching those courses, I am feeling particularly nostalgic:

  I have learned more from you than maybe you learned from me – I was lucky to be inspired by your bravery, your talents, and your enthusiasm. Many times, you were the reason I wanted to continue teaching, and I have always known that the work we did in those classes would be the inspiration for you to go out into the world and be the best versions of yourself. You were that inspiration for me. I dedicate this to you. All of you. (Even if you’re like: nah, she may not mean ME. You’re wrong. You.) From my first newspaper staff ten years ago—who caught me on the cusp of adulthood, one foot in both worlds—to the creative writing students who helped me workshop this very book, you brought me joy. I hope you look back on your time with me as time well spent. I know I do.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is unintentional.

  Copyright © 2013 Shelbi Wescott

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0615851679 (Arthur Press)

  ISBN-10: 0615851673

  Prologue

  4 years before The Release

  Scott King emerged from a taxicab on the corner of Fourth and Main, looked up at the silver building in front of him and took a deep breath.

  Dressed in a brand new suit, complete with a blue and green paisley tie handpicked by his wife Maxine, and holding an old leather briefcase, he hoped he appeared professional and put together. He needed his outfit to scream Hireable Disease Specialist. His typical laboratory wear included twenty-year old blue jeans and an Oregon Ducks t-shirt underneath his white lab coat, so the suit was a new addition to his wardrobe. And it wasn’t an entirely welcome one—the fabric clung to his legs as he walked and the jacket felt tight against his back.

  The city bustled around him, people on cell phones, horns honking, the click and thump of feet on pavement. Scott examined himself for a long moment in the front window of the building before inserting himself into the fray vying for a place in the revolving door. Then he checked in with the doorman per the instructions on the cryptic letter he received only a few short weeks before, and waited for his escort to arrive.

  “Scott King?” a woman’s voice called behind him and Scott turned to her, smiled. Shifting the briefcase over to his left hand, he shoved out his right, and shook her hand with a firm grip, which she reciprocated. Her hand was warm and firm, and Scott resisted the urge to reach into his suit pocket and spread a thin layer of hand sanitizer over his skin.

  Germs were everywhere. Hiding. All sorts of normal people didn’t wash their hands regularly.

  “Yes,” he replied, his voice higher and lacking the self-assurance he had practiced. He prayed that he wouldn’t say anything embarrassing or make a joke or enter into a rambling non sequitur about air travel. The woman in front of him was younger than he had expected—early to mid-twenties, an intern maybe, but she had a confident air that belied her youth.

  “I’m Blair, Huck Truman’s office assistant and,” she paused for dramatic effect, “his adoring daughter as well. I’ll be getting you prepped for your interview with him today. You look nervous, Scott. Don’t be nervous.”

  He opened his mouth to respond and then clamped it shut, answering only with a tight-lipped smile.

  “This is all just a preliminary interview,” Blair said and she leaned over and stuck a key into a box at the side of an elevator and the doors slid open. Scott waited for her to enter first and he couldn’t help but notice her long tan legs and the fit of her skirt as she walked in front of him. He looked to the ceiling and held his briefcase tighter. She entered a second key and then pushed a button for the top floor. The doors shut and the elevator purred as they rose.

  Blair looked every bit the part of a young professional. Her hair was perfectly colored, her nails manicured in shellac; her pointy crocodile leather shoes looked more expensive than anything Scott’s wife would have purchased—including Maxine’s wedding dress. In addition to her flawlessness, Blair seemed talented at small talk; even her smile, as she encouraged Scott to share the banal details of his trip, seemed genuine.

  “My father, or Mr. Truman, as I’m supposed to say, has been gushing about you, Scott. May I call you Scott?”

  He said it was fine.

  Blair continued, “Your résumé is impressive.”

  “Thank you,” he replied and watched the numbers as they climbed higher and higher. Floor 20. Floor 21. Floor 22. A steady ascent. “Ms. Truman—”

  “Blair. You can just call me Blair. Please. ”

  He could hardly bring himself to say it. “If you think you wouldn’t mind…I did have some questions before my interview.”

  “Of course. I’d be happy to answer any questions I can, but you should know that I really am only an administrative assistant for my father and brother.”

  “Yes, I see.” Scott’s head felt heavy and he yawned a bit to pop his ears. “Usually I do a bit of research into a company before I interview, but it seems like the Elektos Corporation doesn’t exist in the digital world, which, as you can imagine, is a bit odd for a giant company in the twenty-first century. Cryptic letters asking to see me? Money to fly me out here, put me up in a five star hotel, and no one has heard of you. So, I suppose I should ask, is your dad a superhero? Am I about to meet Batman?”

  Blair gave him a polite smile and blinked vapidly, but she narrowed her eyes a bit, assessing him, and didn’t answer. Scott’s hands grew sweaty and he snickered and then waved away his joke with his free hand.

  “I kid, clearly. You’d be taking me underground to the bat cave. Spiderman, maybe, then, right? No. I’m sorry. It’s hard to conceptualize a company I wasn’t able to research. Research is my job. And I am interested in what this company does…I feel like I should be armed with that knowledge, at the very least.”

  “Sustainable, renewable energy,” Blair answered with a perfunctory head nod.

  “Oh.” Scott was confused. “That’s not really my area of expertise.”

  “We’re here,” Blair said as the doors opened up to the lobby of a sterile and blindingly bright lobby. White couches had been staged in a rectangle and potted plants sprouted by their sides; a waterfall wall trickled and dripped behind a stainless steel reception desk where a thin redhead broke into a bright, rehearsed smile at their arrival. Since the building was so tall, Scott couldn’t really see the city below, only the tops of the other buildings nearby and a vast, open blue sky.

  “Blair. Mr. King,” the redhead said upon their arrival.

  “Please have a seat and Jessie here will get you set up,” Blair told him in a hushed voice. Then she sauntered off and Scott took a seat on a white chair, setting his briefcase down beside him. He sat for five minutes, Jessie engaged in paperwork, as only the sound of the waterfall echoed through the open room. Then Jessie grabbed a clipboard and walked over to him. She was wearing dangerously high heels that clapped with powerful bursts against the hardwood flooring.

  “You will need to sign this before we begin,” she said in a chipper singsong voice as she handed him the clipboard. “Right here,” she pointed with the end of a ballpoint pen, “and here.” Then Jessie waited, hovering in front of him, her arms dangling motionless at her sides.

  Scott glanced over the form. Written
in bold across the top: Nondisclosure Agreement. Without hesitation, Scott scribbled his signature on the bottom and printed his name on the line up top. He then initialed both pages and handed the clipboard back to Jessie, who smiled and then pivoted and walked back to her desk.

  The form didn’t shock Scott or raise any red flags.

  Companies often asked for his discretion when discussing research and development. He had signed many similar forms in his tenure as a scientist and the details he had learned about people and companies were vast and damning to a great number of people. Secrets didn’t interest Scott; while he supposed some people would have been ecstatic to tease out of him salacious details, he was content to hide them away.

  After depositing the clipboard, Jessie beckoned him to follow her into a small side room. He followed her, briefcase in hand, and as he did, he marveled at the quietness of the office. There were no ringing telephones, no bustling associates; the only noises were the waterfall, the soft swish-swish of Jessie’s pleated skirt, and their own footsteps as they walked down toward the door. Jessie unlocked the room and swung the door wide and then wordlessly motioned for Scott to enter. He took a step inside and froze.