The Virulent Chronicles Box Set

by Shelbi Wescott

  The group exchanged wearied glanced.

  “I have weapons back at the house,” Dean added quickly. “And a large stockpile. I’ve hit up East County in my spare time…got the trailer up past 182nd one day. I’ll let you take a look. Maybe we can work out some trades. Your meals would make life easier.”

  Darla shook her head with disbelief and Joey watched wide-eyed. Then he was the first to chuckle; a slow bubbling laugh that he tried to suppress and then, understanding its inappropriateness, it only seemed to grow. When he looked at Dean, he stood there with a half-smile on his face, watching Joey like he was a simpleton.

  “I’m sorry,” Joey said after a long second. He covered his mouth his hand. “I’m sorry. Just…” he laughed again, “I think we just made a friend.”

  Spencer muttered under his breath, but then was the first to lower his gun. “You’re a real piece of work, Dean,” Spencer said and he put his hand on Darla’s arm, encouraging her to follow suit. She resisted at first, shaking Spencer off, but then he gave her a solitary look—a moment just between them, and Darla dropped her weapon. Then he turned back to Grant’s dad and sighed, “I can’t decide if you’re a genius or an idiot.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t heard that before,” Dean said with a smile. “Anyone up for a beer?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Scott moved Grant back into the lab, and kept a firm hand on the boy’s elbow as he directed him into the bright, sterile room. He bypassed securing Grant to the table, but Lucy’s father still seemed hesitant and on-edge as if Grant might bolt. Which was a ridiculous worry, since Grant knew he was trapped.

  He’d been in the supply closet at least a few days, but maybe even longer, and Scott ventured down during strange and unpredictable hours to help Grant eat, go to the bathroom, and then he’d run his tests. Bruises formed along his arm from the poking and prodding after blood draws and other needle pricks. While Grant had never been squeamish about medical procedures, and he didn’t intend on starting now, he’d certainly taken a beating under Scott’s careful watch.

  Whatever those tests were telling Scott King, Grant had not been privy to the details—but while he still tried to engage Grant in shallow conversations about books and movies, his entire demeanor suggested that he was a world away. Detached and distant, Scott treated Grant like a talking monkey: A fascinating specimen with intriguing ideas, worthy of basic conversation, but perhaps not human decency.

  At the end of the day, here in the System, Grant was only a lab rat.

  A lab rat with acute self-awareness.

  His video collection pile was dwindling and during the hours of solitary confinement ennui was Grant’s most overwhelming emotion.

  “I brought you some new books,” Scott said as Grant hopped up and walked out toward the lab, the schedule of events rooted firmly into place.

  “You have a library in this place?” Grant asked.

  Scott nodded. “Very well stocked, too,” he added.

  Grant shrugged. “Did you have to decide what to bring? Was it like some committee of the best minds in literature sitting around some table all arguing with each other?” He sat up a little straighter and assumed a deep-announcer voice, “If you’re about to annihilate the world and live underground, what five books would you take with you?”

  “Something like that,” Scott replied. “The difference is that over the course of time, we will have access to everything again. The books left above ground are not lost forever…just for a time,” he explained.

  “Can I make requests then?” Grant asked. He thought maybe he’d try to read through all those books his high school teachers said were important, but he hadn’t ever tried to read. It was a start. The idea had come to him while he thought of Lucy—he remembered her trying to read through Fahrenheit 451 while they had been trapped together. He thought maybe she’d be proud of him.

  “Certainly,” Scott replied. He organized his tools and counted vials. He wasn’t too chatty and it made Grant feel awkward and more inclined to start a conversation. They had endured long silences in the lab before, but only when Grant was feeling woozy from the experiments. Scott was the only person Grant had left to talk to.

  “Whatcha got for me today?” Grant asked, glancing at Scott’s usual assortment of medical equipment.

  Scott walked over and put Grant’s arm flat against his own. He inserted a small needle into the flesh of his upper arm. Then he pulled the needle out and inspected the injection site. The shots rarely hurt, but this one ached instantaneously. Grant felt a little lightheaded and he looked at Scott askew, rubbing his arm.

  “That’s a new one,” Grant said.

  “A direct injection of the virus.”

  Grant shot up and opened his mouth to protest. The word took a bit to form as he felt himself starting to panic. “I told you,” he said, his voice rising. “I want to know. You don’t get to do it without warning. I need a chance to prepare. It’s all I’ve asked for.” He felt close to tears. Passing away on the table in the middle of talking about books was not how he needed it to happen. He’d asked Scott numerous times to let him know if the end was near; besides incidentals, it was the only legitimate thing he had asked of Lucy’s father, even though he could think of a million more things he truly wanted instead.

  “This won’t kill you,” Scott said matter-of-factly.

  “Direct injection? Of the virus that killed everybody?”

  “It won’t kill you. You’re immune. Finding out why is the next step. But I need to see if your cells respond at all. If the virus multiplies at all. It’s crucial.”

  “Why?” Grant asked.

  “Lots of reasons. Are you still a carrier? How does your body respond? Where does the virus become inhibited? At what point in the process does that happen? I have many questions and no answers. You’re puzzling, Grant.”

  Grant nodded and rubbed the injection site. When Scott looked down for a second, he wiped his eyes and tried to make it look like he was just scratching an itch.

  “I wrote Lucy a letter with the paper you gave me,” Grant said after a moment. The light-headedness passed, but his arm still ached. He hadn’t wanted to tell Scott about the letter yet, but the end seemed closer—more tangible. He’d hate to have his words go to waste.

  His statement caused Scott to freeze, and he closed his eyes. When Lucy’s dad opened them, there was a twinkle. A knowing look. Grant regretted mentioning the letter if teasing was on the menu. When it came to their bizarre relationship, Scott often blurred the lines between his role as torturer and his role as Grant’s solitary companion.

  “You did?” Scott asked.

  “It’s a goodbye…it’s a—” he wanted to say a manifesto, but that wasn’t the right word. It was his final attempt to say what was in his heart. It was a way to keep himself alive in her heart. He hesitated, “She’s my friend. My only friend, I guess.”

  Scott leaned against the metal bed and then put a hand on Grant’s shoulder. The gesture felt awkward—an act of fatherly intimacy that Grant felt like Scott didn’t deserve. He looked at Scott and wondered what he would say, how he would respond, if Lucy ever shared the letter with him. Under different circumstances, he might have met Scott as he picked up Lucy for a date. He’d have shaken his hand at the door and exchanged mumbled conversations about dinner plans. He’d have tried to assess what kind of father Scott was going to turn out to be: relaxed and kind, militant and angry. Would he have waited up until they returned? Or would he have left the post-date spying to his wife? Grant shook all those thoughts away. He tried not to entertain them.

  When Salem had kissed him outside the journalism room, Grant wished he had been kissing Lucy. But it never seemed like the right time to bring that up; there was nothing like the worry and threat of disaster to thwart romance. As their days and weeks progressed together, he knew that if he could make it through this, he hoped Lucy would remain by his side. He’d wanted her to give him a signal, anything, to le
t him know that he wasn’t the only one feeling a connection. But she’d been so focused on her family, on Ethan, on the future—it was never the right time.

  Besides, it was stupid to daydream about traditional romance. Stupid to think that there was room in this new life for dating, falling in love, planning for the future.

  It all seemed ridiculous. Like a rope from the old world he wanted to hold onto until the last possible moment.

  “So, do you confess your undying love for my daughter?” Scott asked and he raised his eyebrows.

  “No—no,” Grant stammered, suddenly embarrassed. His cheeks flushed. That was new: blushing was not a normal reaction. The letter was void of romantic intentions because he wasn’t going to use his last dying words to make Lucy feel forever tethered to him. There was unfairness in that. He had let her know how much she had meant to him during their weeks of travel. He had hoped to leave her with something positive.

  “I always used to joke with Lucy that if she dated a guy and I didn’t get to meet him first, I’d kill him and she’d never be allowed out of the house,” Scott said to Grant. He laughed. “Apparently I’m prophetic,” he said with a smile. Then he stopped laughing, looked at Grant, and started to laugh again. Inappropriate dark humor was a common theme in their conversations. Usually, Grant thought Scott’s brand of humor was endearing. He lacked a certain self-awareness that made Grant feel more comfortable—like a goofy drunk uncle.

  Grant gave Scott a half-smile, but out of politeness. “You can read the letter beforehand, if you want.” It was a bluff, but he hoped the transparency would indicate that he had nothing to hide. “It’s not really like that—Lucy and I never…she’s just my friend…are you sure I’m not going to die?” He pointed at his arm.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Not today. You’re not going to die today. I can’t explain it yet, but I’m confident about that,” Scott walked back over to Grant and ran his finger over Grant’s arm. “Is that tender?”

  With a sniff, Grant nodded. “I have the letter on me. It’s in my pocket. Just…in case.”

  “You really don’t trust me? To keep my word? You thought today you’d wake up and I’d just inject you and we’re done?” Scott shook his head. “It’s okay. We have time.” Then Scott turned his head and eyed Grant carefully; the look made Grant draw back.

  “How much time?” Grant looked down at the table. The idea of months upon months in that small closet was worse than the threat of death. He tapped his fingers against the metal frame. Maybe Lucy’s father was on some sort of strict timeline, but it didn’t feel like that most of the time.

  To prove that point, Scott merely shrugged and then leaned over and patted Grant on the back. “I think we have a lot in common, you and I,” Scott said. Then he left Grant alone and went to his workstation, where he messed around with vials and slides under a microscope, mumbling little noises of approval or confusion.

  “How so?” Grant asked after a while.

  “What? Huh?” Scott asked, spinning around, and then he made a face. “Oh, yes. Just…you’re not a complainer. Not a big fighter. It’s funny…there are two camps, even when you work with animals.”

  “Animals?”

  “Mice. Monkeys. Even the animals…two camps. Very distinct.” Scott pulled a petri dish off of the shelf and added a solution to it; he then slid some of the dish’s contents onto a slide and stuck it under a microscope. “There are those who are born to fight and those who are born to accept. Line up. Kill me, I won’t fight it, types.”

  “That sounds like an indictment,” Grant said. He could hear this father’s voice running like an undercurrent through that faint-praise: You’re weak, Grant. You got to get out there and just jump right in. Take some chances. We’re fighters, you and I, and the Trotters don’t give up, we don’t roll over, we don’t quit.

  “Not at all. At least I don’t think so.” Scott didn’t look up. “I do think it’s a trait we share. I’ve never been a big complainer either. And I think I’m happier for it.”

  There was nothing he could say as a reply. Grant wasn’t happy. He was resigned. There was a marked difference.

  “The cells are like little fortified battalions. I’m confused by it entirely,” Scott said, although he didn’t seem to direct this news to anyone in particular. “And if they aren’t responding to the direct injection…” he trailed off.

  Grant’s hand went into his back pocket and he pulled out his letter to Lucy. He had written her name across the envelope—he hated his childish scrawl, the ‘y’ of her name looked like a ‘g’, but maybe she wouldn’t inspect her name too closely. Maybe she would just run her finger over the little image he drew in the corner: A hot air balloon, two stick figures sailing through the air. They were holding hands.

  He hadn’t noticed Scott walking back up to him, holding a new set of needles.

  “Is that the letter?” Scott asked and he leaned over. “To Lucy?”

  Grant nodded. He went to put it back in his pocket, but Scott stuck out his hand.

  “I’ll put it in the lab safe. Just to be sure.”

  There was a moment of hesitation, but then Grant handed the envelope over. The longer it stayed in his pocket, the harder it was to think about the fact that he would never see Lucy again. Resigned, it was the perfect way to describe how he felt. Scott reiterated every day: There was only one way this could end. Kicking, screaming, yelling, may not even prolong his life, and it may make things harder for Lucy and for her family. He rationalized his lack of fight as martyrdom.

  “I promise. I’ll keep it safe and I will give it to her to read when the time comes.” Scott tucked the letter into his lab coat and patted his pocket once. Then he reached for Grant’s arm and Grant obeyed by extending it fully. Scott drew four vials of blood and pulled the needle from his arm—with a sad smile, he shuffled off to the counter.

  Grant watched as Scott worked. Organizing. Pulling. Pouring. Sorting. A quiet sort of work, mechanical and automated. Occasionally Scott would mutter something under his breath or make a strange sort of clicking noise, but the work was silent.

  “So, what are your requests?” Scott asked after a few minutes.

  “What?” Grant’s mind went to last requests, but then he realized Scott must have been back at their beginning conversation. Books. He was back to the books. Scott’s mind often worked in large circles, crawling back to a conversation from hours ago without missing a beat. Grant rarely kept up. “Oh, um, maybe…just some classics.”

  “You got it,” Scott replied. He pulled over a rolling chair and sat down. Then he popped up, walked over to a refrigerator in the corner and pulled out some additional glass beakers. “The work is lonely, that’s for sure,” Scott said out of nowhere, and Grant looked around, confused.

  “In the lab?”

  “I used to have a team.”

  “Don’t tell me…” Grant grimaced. “You killed them?”

  Scott laughed and pointed a finger in jest at Grant. “Funny,” was all he said, but Grant hadn’t been kidding.

  “Here. Let’s try this.” Scott walked over to Grant holding a collection of test tubes. “A virus with the same properties as my virus.”

  His virus. “Did you name it?”

  “The virus? No. Should I have?”

  “Something catchy. Like S1K1.”

  “Nice. And here comes the pinch.”

  He jabbed the needle in Grant’s other arm.

  Grant could see the letter to Lucy sticking out of Scott’s pocket. The hot air balloon drawing visible—and the curl of the y. He regretted handing it over to him. Maybe he should get a new envelope. Write her name with a distinct ‘y’. It was a mistake—he realized that now. It was a mistake writing the letter at all. Maybe he should have demanded to see her one last time.

  That should have been his last request.

  They wouldn’t have honored it, but at least he could have asked. So then Scott could tell her, “Yes. He asked for you.” Maybe then s
he would know the truth. Why had he wasted an entire letter without telling her the truth?

  His head began to pound.

  “I’m getting a headache,” Grant mumbled. His chest felt tight. He took in a deep breath of air and felt nauseated.

  “Huh,” was all Scott said and he put his hand against Grant’s forehead. With speed and efficiency he drew some blood, as Grant started to feel clammy and weak.

  Salem. His last kiss had been Salem. He closed his eyes. And he thought of Lucy. What she would say if she had known about that kiss?

  Salem’s lips touched his and he kissed her back, it was true. But it had always been about Lucy.

  “I don’t—” Grant started and then he leaned back, reeling. Jagged lightning flashes danced before his eyes. Blues and yellows—pops of stars in his line of vision. “I need to lie down.”

  “I didn’t think it would…it’s from the same family…okay, easy now.” Scott placed his hands behind Grant and assisted him down onto the hospital bed. He whispered to himself and even as Grant slipped into sickness, he could hear the worry in his voice.

  “I’m co-co-cold,” Grant mumbled. It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  Is that how everyone else felt? In the moments before they passed on? That thought caused his heart to tighten more. He wondered what the victims experienced as they walked toward death. He realized now that it wasn’t the peaceful march he’d imagined for himself. No, he was sad and afraid. He felt panicky.

  He thought he’d have more time.

  “My letter,” Grant said. He reached up and grabbed the first thing he could—the edge of Mr. King’s lab coat. Scott King stumbled away from him. Yanking the fabric and pulling the cloth toward him, Grant repeated his final wishes. “My letter…when I’m gone…my letter…”

  “I know, son. I know. You’re not going to die. Hang on.” His words were comforting, but his face was afraid. For the first time Grant could tell that Scott King didn’t sound confident in his assertion that he would live.