Anxiety: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (The Agora Virus Book 2)

by Jack Hunt

  I can’t come back for twenty-four hours. Please don’t tell Ella.

  That was all he said. All he needed to say, Sal would understand. Wouldn’t he?

  No further messages from him was either a good sign or it meant that Sal had switched into psychiatrist mode and was about to give him a mini-lecture on remaining calm via text message.

  Then one finally came in.

  Understood. Stay safe.

  That was it. He had dodged the bullet. At least he thought he had. Continuing to trudge through the brambles and dense undergrowth he picked up the pace and broke into a jog. Anyone who had lived in Clayton all their life had at some point visited Grindstone Island. Though it was the fourth biggest of the Thousand Islands, it didn’t take long to navigate it.

  He was grateful for the cover of night and the thick hemlock, pine, and cedar trees that shrouded his silhouette. As he broke across a trail and on into another section of woodland, he heard a motor and saw headlights coming his way. He ducked down and got real low to the ground. Had he been spotted? Had they forced Gabriel to tell the truth? The growl of an ATV shot by him, heading in the direction of the hall. He waited another thirty seconds before jumping to his feet and heading in the direction of where the ATV came from. It took him close to fifteen minutes to reach the lit-up property. He’d seen the yellow lights in the trees and heard music playing loudly. As he got close to the tree line he could make out a blazing fire in the middle of a fire pit and three people sitting around in chairs.

  “You know if he catches you drinking beers, he’ll have your ass on a stick,” a woman said. He couldn’t make out who she was but he knew the guy. It was Bret. Bret Guthrie was the only one of the family that seemed ordinary. Frank swore that he’d been adopted. The guy beside him was Joey, Butch’s cousin.

  Frank pulled his Glock 22, stayed close to the tree line, and moved in on the house.

  Seventeen

  As Frank got closer to the house, the more on edge he felt. What the hell was he doing? Creeping around in the night with a weapon in his hand. Was he really going to use it? He had to keep telling himself to stay calm. Don’t lose your cool. Too many times in Iraq he had seen guys lose their shit when pushed into a tight corner. It didn’t matter how much training a jarhead had, or how many years they had pined over the idea of becoming a marine, all that was swept aside when they found themselves smack bang in the middle of a desert with bullets flying over their head. No amount of training could prepare a person for that.

  He edged his way out of a cluster of pine trees and made a beeline for the rear door of the oversized home. He could hear laughter inside but couldn’t tell how many were there. Staying in the shadows he hugged the wall with his back and peered through the window. In the middle of the living room, there were several people he didn’t recognize. He turned and moved along the wall going in the opposite direction. As he reached the corner he saw an entrance for a side porch, he gave it a try and it opened. They obviously weren’t expecting visitors. No alarm went off. Sliding inside he found himself in what appeared to be a greenhouse for growing vegetables. As he gazed around at the tables covered in produce and different plants in various states of growth, he shook his head. It was disappointing to think that Butch felt the need to raid his place. How many others had he done this to? How many others were going without their basic needs because of him? Meanwhile he was flourishing with more than enough.

  Right then, he heard voices and someone drawing near. Frank ducked under one of the many wooden tables that lined the sides, and squeezed behind several bags of fertilizer. He did his best to cover his entire body as boots pounded the floor, and got closer.

  “Get me a beer as well,” a voice cried out.

  “I’d like to see the day you get off your ass and get me one for once.”

  It was Bret. Tucked behind multiple bags and in the heat of the greenhouse, he was sweating buckets. The door opened and in came Bret mumbling under his breath about how tired he was of taking their shit. He ambled over to a mini-fridge and pulled out several bottles of beer. Then he started looking around with a scowl on his face.

  “Oh come on, where is it?”

  He moved across the room heading in the direction of where Frank was. Clutching his Glock he turned it outward, preparing for the worst. He wanted to close his eyes and pretend he wasn’t there but he was and if Bret dropped down to knee level, the chances were he would see him. The bags partially covered him but it wasn’t perfect.

  “Bret, hurry up, we don’t have long before he’ll be expecting us back.”

  “I’m coming, hold your horses,” he shouted. After, he went back to saying what an asshole Joey was, and how he wished he’d headed east to his uncle’s place in Maine. It was to be expected. Not everyone would be onboard with Butch.

  “There it is,” he said. That was followed by the noise of metal and then the hiss of bottle tops being opened. Frank heard him open two and then was waiting for the third when the bottle opener clattered on the floor. Bret cursed and reached down to grab it. Frank’s eyes flared as he saw his face come into view. He wasn’t looking directly at him but to the side as he tried to reach underneath and grab it.

  “Bret! Come on.”

  “Fuck sake,” Bret yelled.

  He stood up and smacked his head and then the air was filled with curse words as he walked off with the bottles.

  Frank waited a couple of seconds until he was gone before he slipped out and dashed towards the door that led into the house. As soon as he slipped in, he crouched down and listened for voices, footsteps, or any sign of activity that would determine where he shouldn’t head. He started making his way towards the kitchen, figuring there might be a large pantry or some kind of storage unit built into the house to keep everything in but he had only made it a few feet when the patter of kids’ feet could be heard against tiles. Before he had a chance to rush into a nearby room, a young girl shot out into the corridor. She had bright wide blue eyes, and couldn’t have been more than six years of age. She glanced at Frank and for a moment it felt as if his heart had stopped. It was only when she went on her way without even saying a word that he realized he’d been holding his breath. He continued on down the hallway. The sound of someone else approaching made him veer right and head for the basement.

  The very second he was inside he kept his ear to the door and waited until they went by. Deciding he would wait a little longer, he slowly descended the stairs until he was down inside a finished basement. The guy had really coughed up a lot of money to do the place up. It was kitted out with leather couches, a huge wide-screen TV, and then his eyes fell upon stacks of MRE boxes from the floor to the ceiling.

  That bastard has more than enough.

  He wandered down the full length of the basement that was one long corridor with multiple bedrooms on either side. He checked inside each one. It was like the lap of luxury. This was a prepper who hadn’t cut corners.

  When he reached the fourth room he noticed it was locked. Bingo. There were only a few reasons they would lock a room and he assumed it had to have been where all the good shit was stashed. He paused a second, thinking he heard something. When there was no sound he pulled his knife and tried prying the door open but the sucker wouldn’t budge. He had no lock kit on him. He had noticed a key rack on the ground floor when he came in, but he knew he wasn’t going to find the right key in time. He pressed on and checked a few more rooms. Some of them were stocked up with bags of grain, and cans of alcohol. As he sorted through it to see if any of it was his, he heard someone cough further down the hall. That was followed by a female’s voice.

  “You can’t keep me in here.”

  He frowned and ducked back out into the corridor.

  “I can hear you out there,” she continued.

  Frank tossed a glance back up the corridor before he moved in the direction of the room.

  “If you think you are going to get away with this you are sorely mistaken. The po
lice might not be in Clayton but they sure as hell are in the larger cities. I’m going to report all of you.”

  Frank hesitated before he tried the door. When it opened, he was surprised to find a woman laying on the ground with both her hands in cuffs around a pipe. She had dirty blond hair, and her cheeks were red from crying.

  “Well? Are you just going to stand there?”

  Frank looked over his shoulder before entering and closing the door behind him.

  She cowered back as much as she could. “You touch me, I’ll scream.”

  He put a finger up to his lips and crouched down to her level.

  “I’m not with them.”

  She studied his face for a moment as if to determine whether he was a threat or not.

  “How do I know that?”

  He didn’t recognize her from the town, though it had grown over the years and he had spent far too much time hidden away from society, only coming out when he needed to get the basics.

  He pulled out a knife and her nostrils flared in terror.

  “Help,” she screamed at the top of her voice.

  He immediately pressed his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. Right then he heard someone shout down.

  “You better shut up or I’ll come down there.”

  Her eyes bulged above his hand as he kept it firmly in place. The last thing he needed now was to have to deal with one of Butch’s family.

  “Listen, I’ll get you out of here but I need you to keep it down.” He stared at her. “Now I’m going to take my hand off your mouth, you aren’t going to scream, okay?”

  She nodded affirmatively. He released his grip, and then looked at her hair for a bobby pin but there wasn’t one. There were two ways of getting handcuffs off if someone didn’t have a key. As he didn’t have a key or a bobby pin he did the next best thing.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’m just going to a room a few feet from here. I promise I’ll be right back.”

  She didn’t look convinced but he left nevertheless. Carefully and quickly he moved down to the room where he’d seen the grain and beer cans. He went in and retrieved one of the cans and darted back into the room where the woman was.

  “What’s your name by the way?”

  “Karla.”

  “Karla. Frank.”

  She gave a slight smile but it was clear she just wanted to get the hell out of there.

  He emptied the contents down the sink and then tore the can apart. Using his knife he cut out a piece of the thin metal into a rectangular shape. Then he crouched down beside her and placed one end of the torn-off metal into the gap that was close to the teeth. The flat metal slid down into the cuff, and once he had it down there, he told her to turn her wrist. As soon as she did that, her hand came free. A look of shock, perhaps gratitude spread across her face. She pulled the other cuff around the bar, it dangled from her hand and she was about to get up when they heard boots coming down the hall.

  “Shit, put them back on.”

  “No, I...”

  “Do it now or we are both dead.”

  Reluctantly she resumed the position she was in and locked her hand back in place. The rooms were small. A bed, a small washroom with a sink and toilet, and room for a closet. The closet wasn’t big enough for him, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to fit under the bed. The only place he could hide was in the washroom behind the door. It meant the door would be slightly open as there was little room inside but he had no other option. The sound of boots came closer. He heard the main door swing open. He’d told Karla not to look at him but to keep looking forward.

  “What the hell was all that racket about?” a gruff voice barked.

  “You can’t keep me in here.”

  “Lady, we can do whatever the hell we want.”

  Frank couldn’t tell who it was only that it was a male.

  “You need to use the washroom?”

  “No.”

  “Then why were you yelling?”

  When she didn’t reply, he must have seen that as some odd indication that she had made a whole bunch of noise to get him down there so she could put moves on him.

  “Ah, I know what you’re after. Well hey darling, you should have just said. But here’s the thing, I can’t take you out of those cuffs, so we’ll just have to improvise.”

  Frank heard a pant zipper go down and a belt buckle come loose. Then the guy stepped toward the cramped bathroom and shoved against the door. When it bounced back, he heard him mutter. “What the hell?”

  As he stuck his head around to take a look, Frank cracked him with a right hook and he stumbled back against the wall. Before he could let out a yell, Frank grabbed him and twisted him over and put his arm around his neck in a chokehold. Pushing his feet up against the wall and leaning back against the other wall, he used all the force he had to put that guy out but he was struggling like a fish out of water. He didn’t want to kill him. That wouldn’t just change the dynamics of everything; it would send him on a course to becoming something he wasn’t — a cold-blooded murderer.

  As much as he tried to choke him out, Joey held on to his arm for dear life. It was when he began slamming his foot against the wall that Frank knew he was running out of time. Any minute now they would hear him and someone would come down.

  What didn’t help the issue was Karla was trying to kick him in the stomach with her feet.

  “Karla, enough.”

  Slowly but surely, Joey lost consciousness. His limbs went limp and he was snoring up a storm. Frank lifted a hand for a second thinking he had heard something. He dashed over to the door and looked out down the corridor. Thankfully, no one had heard his stomping. The music outside took care of that.

  He rushed back into the room and unshackled Karla. When she got up she gave Joey another kick.

  “Karla.”

  “You can’t leave him alive. He’ll tell the others.”

  In that moment he knew he had two choices. Cuff Joey to the basin, or kill him. Either one would still cause Butch to hunt them down. He stared down at the unconscious cousin for a second and then pulled out his knife.

  Eighteen

  After the meeting concluded, Butch waited until those inside had dispersed before he approached Gabriel and Tyrell. He scratched the back of his head while he looked at them as if trying to decide whether they were going to be a problem.

  Gabriel figured they had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving.

  Butch squinted at them both. “So you need a bed for the night?”

  They nodded.

  “Why didn’t you stay on the boat?”

  “I get seasick,” Tyrell said immediately.

  “Fair enough. We’ll let you stay the night, give you something to eat but it’s not free. What do you have on you?”

  “Just the clothes on our back.”

  “What about the boat?”

  “Life jackets. Boat stuff.”

  Butch pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at them. “You sure you’re from Watertown?”

  “I’d show you ID but I left in a hurry and didn’t take my wallet with me.”

  “Is that so?”

  Tyrell shrugged. “Yeah.”

  He gave them back a toothy grin. “Then it’s going to cost you.” He tapped Palmer beside him while not taking his eyes off them for even a second. “What do you say, Palmer? What’s one night’s rent, supper, and breakfast go for nowadays?”

  “I don’t know, boss. But it’s not cheap. Supply, demand, and whatnot.”

  “Good point. It’s hard to come by a safe, virus-free bed and a warm meal.” Butch sniffed hard and looked them up and down. “You boys look strong. I could use a few more strong men. So here’s what I’m going to do, you work for me for a couple of days, and I’ll take the boat you came over on and we’ll call it even.”

  “Are you serious?” Tyrell blurted out, only to get elbowed in the side by Gabriel.

&nbs
p; “Oh I don’t screw around when it comes to business. Now the question is, boys, do we have a deal?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Tyrell replied.

  “What my friend was trying to saying,” Gabriel glared at Tyrell, “is that we need that boat.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  Palmer, Jackson, and Butch all let out a laugh, as though they were privy to some inside joke.

  “We’ll work for you for three days. But you have to feed us and give us a bed for those days.”

  “Oh I think you have this all backwards. One night’s rent plus food is worth two day’s work.”

  “Then where would we sleep on the second day?” Tyrell said with a degree of hostility.

  “Your boat, under the stars.” Butch shrugged. “Who cares?”

  “It’s not exactly a fair exchange.”

  “We’re not living in fair times.”

  Gabriel breathed in deeply and put his arm around Tyrell. He put up one finger. “Do you mind if I have a word with my friend here?”

  “Sure, go ahead but you might want to speed it up, I hear we are having barbecued ribs for dinner tonight. And I do like me some ribs.”

  Gabriel wandered to the back of the room and kept his voice down low. He peered over his shoulder at Butch and the others who were smirking.

  “What are you doing?” Gabriel asked.

  “The guy is shafting us on this deal.”

  “We’re not even going to be here three days, remember.” Gabriel’s eyes flared in an attempt to indicate the obvious. Chances were they would be able to find wherever all the supplies were being stored in the first day.

  “Well of course we aren’t. Hell, I’ve seen sleazy fifty-dollar motels on skid row give better deals than this crook.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “Just let me do the talking. I’m pretty sure that’s what Frank said.”

  They walked back over to them and Butch stood there with his thumbs hooked into his waistband like he was the sheriff of some old Wild West town.