by Jones, K. J.
EXTINCTION LEVEL EVENT
Book One
K.J. JONES
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Obligatory disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. People, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or in between, is purely coincidental. Specified abodes, boats, and marinas are fiction. The towns, university, and roads are all real.
A note on a name. Phebe is spelled in the English way, versus the Greek spelling of Phoebe. It’s not a misspelling or some newfangled spelling.
At the time of publishing this first edition, you can contact KJ Jones directly through Facebook at fb.me/KJJonesing. Keep an eye on the author page on Amazon for updates.
Contents
Title Page
AUTHOR’S NOTES
PART I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
PART II
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
CREDITS
PART I
THE BEGINNING
Chapter One
Monday
Wilmington, North Carolina.
A Carolina blue sky and bright morning sun mocked the chilly temperature. Phebe rushed out the front door of her rental house. Her long auburn-brown hair still wet. She pulled on a winter jacket with car keys dangling from her mouth. Opening the door to an old blue Honda Civic, she threw a messenger bag on a faded passenger seat. Getting in, she plopped a coffee travel mug into the cup holder. Engine on, she rotated the gearshift into reverse.
And then again.
“Oh come on.”
On the third try, the gear caught. The car whirred out of the driveway.
It only took a few minutes to reach campus. Time dependent on traffic and the state of other people’s ability to drive.
She sat at a red light at the intersection with South College Road, a wide, bustling main thoroughfare. Morning rush hour cars hurried back and forth.
Directly opposite stood the front of campus. It looked stately. A red brick façade. Pine trees, live oaks, and Spanish moss shaded a lawn made of sand.
She cockeyed the rearview mirror to put her hair back in a ponytail.
A news broadcaster’s voice chattered through the radio, “Authorities continue to stress their warning about a new designer drug on the street that is worse than the twenty-twelve bath salts epidemic.”
She answered the ringing phone. “Hi, Ma.”
Her mother’s New York accent blasted through the cell speaker. “Oh, good. You don’t sound sick.”
“I’m not sick, Ma. You asked me that yesterday. And the day before that. Indeed, every day since the epidemic became a pandemic.”
“I pray every day that you’ll stay healthy. Are you keeping the doors locked? I’m hearing on the news about all these crazy drug people in that area.”
“I haven’t seen any crazy drug people. And we always keep the doors locked.”
The light changed.
“I gotta go, Ma. I’m already running late. Love you.”
“Love you, too, honey.”
The Honda crossed the road into the campus entrance. The car barely had shocks. She drove over speed bumps, jarring her spine.
Parking, she hurried to the Art and Science Building. The institutional doors banged shut behind her. Making way through students, she power walked down the hallway and turned into the anthropology department wing.
In the secretary’s office, she expected a chubby, middle-aged women who always looked as if she smelled something rotten. Instead, a geeky PhD candidate sat in the chair. He read a comic book inside a hardbound library book.
“Hey,” she greeted. “Where's what's-her-face?”
“Secretary’s out sick. Like everyone else in the immediate world.” He looked up at her with combined instant blush and utter terror. He reached for his bottle of water and his long fingers knocked it off the desk. “Sorry.”
“Anything for me?”
He came back up with the bottle. “A nine o’clock intro class.”
“Oh no.”
“Materials are in Dr. Simpson’s cubicle. You know, this situation is getting out of hand. I can’t believe I actually took yearly flu shots. What was the point, when –”
She grabbed the materials. “See you later,” cutting off his blather. She rushed to the classroom.
The class had twenty-three registered students. It was big, as entry level classes often were. On her way to the table and podium at the front of the classroom, she glanced at the seven rows of chairs with attached desks.
There were only six students. “Wow.” She lay the messenger bag and class materials on the table. “Where is everyone?”
Two girls sat together midway back. A boy a few rows across from them. A boy and two girls in the first row - all three looked sick. They lifted their heads only to check on the teacher.
The boy in the first row glistened with sweat and dark circles under glazed eyes. “Flu,” he croaked, and exploded into a coughing fit. He covered his mouth as an afterthought.
Phebe cringed. From the messenger bag she withdrew a cellophane wrapper containing a stack of face masks. “Masks, folks. You should be wearing them around others to do your part in trying to prevent the H1N3 influenza spread.” She dropped one each on the occupied desks of the first row. “These are available for free at the student health center.” The sick people pulled them on.
Midway back, Phebe distributed one to the healthy boy. He smiled too broad. She could feel his gaze following her - especially her butt. She turned and crossed between chairs. The healthy girls, a blond and a redhead, smiled eagerly, the way students did when they wanted approval from the teacher.
“I just got over the flu,” said the blond girl, as she received a mask.
“I had it over Christmas,” said the redhead. “For two weeks, I thought I would die.”
Looking out to the students, Phebe cleared her throat. “I am Phebe Marcelino and this is Introduction to Anthropology. Your professor, Dr. Simpson, is out sick and I'm his substitute.”
“So you're not our teacher?” asked the healthy boy.
“What's your name?” Phebe asked.
“Tucker.”
She found it on the roll and gave him a check mark for attendance.
“No, I'm not,” she said. “I'm the teacher's assistant, ah, TA for Dr. Alvarez, our forensic anthropology professor. I normally teach labs. I'm a doctoral candidate in forensic anthropology. I've been covering for the absent teachers during the pandemic.”
“Do you get paid to substitute?” the redhead interrupted.
“Yes.”
The sick boy in the front lifted his head. “Can we go?”
“You're here to keep your place?” Phebe asked.
“Yeah. We get cut if we miss the first classes, right?”
She asked his name and checked him off. “If you have friends registered for this class who have been unable to attend due to illness, tell them to email Dr. Simpson. Then - and this goes for you three up front as well - go to the mobile trailer in the parking lot of the student health center and take the influenza test. It's just a swab in the mouth. No big deal. The professors need the results to keep you from losing your place in class. As long as you have the results and turn them in, under the dean's new emergency policy, you cannot be cut.”
A girl lifted her head and groaned, “I'm dying.”
“Your name?”
Once Phebe checked off everyone, she quickly glanced over a yellow paper. “An important announcement.” She reread, more carefully to make sense of it. “I am to warn you … ah, to not use any drugs claiming to make you feel better from the flu that are purchased at convenience stores, boutique shops also known as head shops, or by dealers of illicit items.”
“Dealers?” Tucker asked, confused. “They talking drug dealers?”
“Seems so.” Phebe continued to read aloud from the paper. “Authorities warn that there is a new designer drug on the streets, claiming to be an aid medication for the flu. It is dangerous, causing terror hallucinations and extreme violence. Only purchase over-the-counter medication from a reputable manufacturer at a drugstore or supermarket. The student health center is now offering free medication.”
“It's Zombie,” the boy in the front murmured.
“What was that, I'm sorry?” Phebe asked.
“Zombie,” he forced out his voice. “That's the drug they're talking about.”
“I know a guy who took that,” said Tucker. “He went crazy. It took five of us to get him down.”
“I heard they had to go to the hospital,” said the redhead.
“We called 9-1-1,” continued Tucker. “They tranq'd his ass, strapped him down, and hauled him off. They say it screws with you so hard, it takes like a week to get over.”
Phebe assumed tranq'd meant tranquilized.
“Why would anyone take it?” asked the blond.
“Can we go,” one of the sick girls groaned.
“Yes,” Phebe said. “Take a syllabus as you go out if you don’t have one. Hope you feel better soon.”
“What else is there to do?” Tucker asked the redhead and blond, as they shuffled out. “My roommates are all sick. It's like a morgue in my apartment.”
With her things gathered, Phebe shut off the lights and pinned open the classroom door.
2.
Phebe headed out of the building, messenger bag strap crossing her torso and jacket zipped up. The next class for her to cover was in the afternoon, so she had some time to work on her doctoral thesis.
A man-made pond sat at the center of the Commons. Ornamental pampas fringed it – a
Tall, clumped grass with white fuzzy panicles swaying in the breeze. Directly across from her building, the library's tinted windows winked the reflection of the sun. She passed a redbrick building: The Student Life Center. Its glass walls showed students inside, eating and talking.
Her phone vibrated. The screen read Mom.
“Hi, Ma.”
“I forgot to mention. Father John’s been asking about you. What should I tell him?”
“That I’m still an agnostic who teaches evolution.”
“All right. If that’s what you really want me to tell him. Up to you.”
“Tell him hi for me then.”
“Anything else? He did baptize you.”
She stopped on the walkway.
“Phebe?”
She watched in disbelief.
“Are you there?”
A girl in a tank top and sleeping shorts wandered around the scraggily grass lawn near the pond. It was forty degrees. Her white tank top showed she was without a bra.
Boys on the opposite walkway laughed and held their cell phones up to video.
Phebe looked around for someone more authoritative than herself. A real adult who could take charge of the situation. Seeing no one except the group of stupid boys, she sighed. She was the adult who had to do something.
“I gotta go, Ma. Talk later.”
“Oh, okay. Talk later.”
She slipped the phone in her pocket. Another look around in hope of a real adult. No one. She stepped off the walkway on to the scraggily grass lawn and walked towards the girl. “Excuse me,” she called out.
No response.
“Hey,” Phebe yelled.
The girl continued to meander around, oblivious to her surroundings. Blond hair hung in front of her face.
“Are you okay?”
A boy yelled, “She’s high, lady.” The immature group laughed.
“Can I help you, miss?” She craned her neck downwards to get a glimpse of the girl’s hair-covered face. “Are you needing medical care? I can call 9-1-1 for you.”
“Hey,” one boy yelled, his tone serious. “Get away from her, lady. What’s-your-name? Phebe. She’s on Zombie, Phebe.”
Phebe looked over at him. The young guy stepped away from his group. She recognized him as Tucker from the intro class a little while ago. “I’m serious, Phebe.”
She looked back at the girl and found the face exposed. She gasped.
The face was horrific. Dilated pupils. They appeared as black eyes, with no color left to the orbs. The skin was gray like gone bad chicken. Foam free flowed from her mouth, and snot from her nose. Brutally chapped lips split into a grimace.
Phebe regretted trying to help. She could be safe in the warm library right now. Instead of her body heated by a racing heart.
The girl snarled at her. She then jerked and made a hiccup-growl sound. It reminded Phebe of the noise made by the creature Gollum in Lord of the Rings..
Phebe stood planted in place. Her mind stunned. Mouth opened. Rising goosebumps the only movement on her body.
The girl screeched like a monster from a movie. The sound echoed against the buildings. The boys yelled, no longer laughing. But Phebe fixated on the horrific face in front of her. The black eyes. The mouth. She didn’t hear footsteps running up behind her.
The girl’s body shook like a revved-up engine ready to bolt forward in a shift to drive. The shrieking continued. Phebe frozen state broke. She backed up. And hit someone.
“Step aside, Pheebs,” a male voice ordered.
She turned and saw her friend, Matt Gleason. Wearing a hoody with the university’s initials emblazed on the front and jeans, Matt dropped his backpack. The sun shined on his short blond hair. Thirty-years-old, his mannerisms seemed older. He commanded attention. He stepped between Phebe and the girl.
“Ease down there, miss.” His tone calm as he spoke to the girl. “I know you’re scared. You’re seeing bad things. But no one here wants to hurt you. You are safe.” His tone changed as he said, “Pheeb, get away for her, now.”
Phebe obeyed and scurried back to the walkway. Tucker soon joined her.
“I got campus police on the phone,” he told her. “They’re asking if she’s dangerous.”
“I’d say potentially yes,” Phebe answered. Despite the cold, sweat slid down her sides.
People gawked from the walkways, including staff and professor faculty members. Cell phones to ears or held out to video.
Sirens sung out in the distance.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Matt said to the girl. “I’m here to help you.”
The girl charged at Matt. He stepped aside and knocked her to the ground. “Stay down.” She went for his leg with her mouth.
“Look out, Matt,” Phebe yelled.
He whipped his jean-clad leg away and jumped back with his fists raised. “I do not want to hurt you, sweetheart.”
Campus police patrol cars rolled up on the curb and onto the Commons. Behind them, Wilmington city police cars and a fire department ambulance. Their chorus of sirens echoed against the buildings. People flooded out to see what was going on. Faces peered in groups through windows. Students pressed against the glass wall of the Student Center.
A female voice yelled, “Matty! You always gotta be the hero.” She saw her roommate, Syanna Lynn Claiborne. “Get outta there, Matty.” Syanna was Matt’s girlfriend.
The girl charged at Matt again. He stepped aside like a matador side stepping the bull’s horns.
Uniformed police poured out of their cars, running towards the girl. Only once they were in proximity did the girl turn. She had seemed oblivious to everyone but Matt until then. The youngest and most agile of the city cops tackled the girl in a manner that normally would g
et them up on abuse charges. She fought like a wild animal.
The police, followed by paramedics, struggled with her.
Phebe and Syanna waited for Matt. He scooped up his bag and approached them. His face pink and sweaty.
Behind him, paramedics strapped the girl down on a gurney.
Faculty and staff began corralling the student onlookers to leave the walkway. “Everyone go back to your classes,” a faculty member ordered.
Matt shrugged. “Did the best I could.”
“Always the hero.” Syanna’s hands on her hips. Her yellow-brown eyes slitted.
Syanna Lynn Claiborne of Savannah, Georgia wasn't what was normally expected of a marine biology grad student. Her cinnamon-colored skin graced exotic biracial beauty. Corkscrew blond hair fluttered in the breeze. A tiny girl with C-cups she was never shy to show off. Everyone noticed when she entered the room, before she opened her mouth.
Matt tried to hug her, but she slapped his chest. “You’re an idiot, Matthew Gleason. That was too dangerous!”
Syanna Lynn stormed off, her tight-jean butt wiggling.
“Where are you going now?” Matt asked Phebe, used to Syanna’s tirades.
Phebe took a moment to respond. “I was originally intending on go to the library for research.”
“I guess I should get to my next class.”
They stood there for an awkward few seconds.
She blurted out, “What the hell was that, Matt?”
“What?”
“That!” She raised her arms towards the site of the event. The girl had been taken away by ambulance. Campus police talked with members of faculty and staff.
“That would be the effects of drugs,” he stated.
“That … was drugs? You’re full of it.”
He chuckled. “No, I’m not.”
“That looked like rabies in a person.”
“Sort of does, doesn’t it?” His backpack heavy with text books lay on the cement walkway. He rested his hands on his narrow hips. His body language open and receptive to her.
