DRYP Trilogy | Book 1 | DRYP [The Final Pandemic]

by Scheuring, R. A.

  Alan realized that they had been skirting the freeway for several blocks. The smoke obscured the elevated interstate, but now that he knew where he was, he began to recognize the buildings that he passed on a daily basis.

  He saw the on-ramp as Joseph accelerated toward it. There was no military there. The barricade had been shoved to the side of the road and lay half-tipped over against the guard rail. Joseph pressed down the gas pedal. “Hold on,” he said.

  Two men charged from the sidewalk, straight at the car. Despite himself, Alan pulled back from the passenger side door, his shoulder colliding with Joseph’s. “Shit!” Alan gasped.

  Joseph abruptly turned the steering wheel to the left. Alan heard the thump of the men against his side door and watched in horror as they fell to the pavement, their bodies rolling backwards.

  The Honda’s tires squealed. Joseph expelled a short, sharp breath as they crested the ramp, and then Alan felt himself flung forward like a rag doll as the car came to an abrupt, skidding halt.

  “Look,” said Joseph.

  Alan painfully pulled himself up and peered through the windshield. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  The freeway was choked with cars: cars turned sideways, cars piled up on top of each other, cars with no people in them, and cars with people packed in like sardines. But what was most obvious of all was that the cars were going nowhere. He could see people crawling out of them, inching their way back down the freeway toward the on-ramp where he and Joseph sat in their idling car.

  The military has lost control of the freeway, Alan thought. Which meant that anarchy was now complete.

  “We can’t stay here,” he said.

  But Joseph was way ahead of him. He threw the car in reverse and tore down the ramp like a madman.

  Thirty-Seven

  Harry and Ann Kincade gazed at the illuminated world map on the enormous flat screen monitor in the CDC’s Washington, DC situation room. Outside, employees congregated around a series of computers, their voices muted completely by the soundproof windows.

  “The colors keep changing,” said Harry.

  “The map is color-coded. Yellow means no cases. Orange means suspected cases. Red means documented cases.” Ann stood with folded arms next to him, tenseness emanating from her body like radioactive waves.

  “What’s black?” Harry had noticed that most of the western United States had been blacked out.

  “It signifies an attack rate of greater than ten percent.”

  Harry watched what seemed like half of Africa turn from red to black. “That can’t be possible.”

  “It’s because of HIV,” said the CDC Director. “Sub-Saharan Africa has a five percent HIV infection rate. That means a lot of Africans are particularly vulnerable to DRYP. The World Health Organization anticipates the entire continent will be black within the next twenty-four hours.” She turned away. “That’s a WHO map. There’s a time delay between reporting and posting, especially in Africa. I suspect the situation is actually much worse.” She opened a bottle of water, moved her mask aside, and took a swig.

  Harry looked at her pale lips. All her lipstick had been rubbed off by the mask. “You should keep your mask on.”

  She waved him off. “I’m not scared of catching anything from you.” She screwed the cap back on the bottle and placed it on the table. “There was a shooting this morning. One of the doctors at George Washington University Hospital refused ventilator therapy for a patient. Not because he wanted to, but because there were no ventilators. The patient’s brother shot him. In the face. The doctor died instantly.”

  She turned back to Harry. “We’ve shut down the major cities, ordered all schools and public venues closed nationwide, issued a shelter-in-place order. All of the things that you wanted, Harry, but it’s not working. It’s spreading.”

  As she spoke, New Mexico turned black. Of the entire United States, only Alaska remained orange. Every other state was red or black.

  “Look at that, Harry,” she said, her voice rising. “It’s a Category Six pandemic. It’s happening right before our eyes.”

  She sounded panicked. Harry had to stop it. “The pandemic severity index is a five-point scale,” he said harshly. “There’s no such thing as a Category Six pandemic.”

  “Yes, there is. It signifies a species-ending event.”

  He wheeled around on her, astounded. “DRYP is not a Category Six pandemic, Ann. It’s a Category Five pandemic. We’ve got a potential vaccine. We’ve just got to wait it out until immunity takes effect.”

  She stared at him, her eyes a little wild, her chest rising and falling too rapidly.

  “Ann, listen to me.” He put his hands on her shoulders, made her look at him. “I know the casualties will be horrendous. The life we know is gone. But everyone is counting on us. Everyone.” He pushed her away a little. “You’ve got to keep it together.”

  That angered her. He could see it flicker in her eyes. “Go to hell, Harry.”

  Harry looked up at the world clock above the flat panel display. “The others are coming. We have fifteen minutes to come up with an updated plan.”

  She stood straighter. She put a finger to the skin beneath her lower eyelid and wiped at the mascara smudge there. “TV’s not working. Power is out in most of the western United States. That means the internet relay stations in the major cities out there are out.”

  “They’ll have to ride it out,” said Harry.

  “It’s impacting us, Harry. Have you been on the internet lately?”

  “No.” In truth, he had been on the satellite phone almost nonstop all day.

  “There’s been a surge in traffic. People are working from home. People are trying to find out what’s going on. The internet can’t handle the traffic. Especially with the failure of the West Coast relay stations. The internet is collapsing.”

  “We can live without the internet. For Christ’s sake, Ann. Everyone over forty has.”

  “It’s how we’ve been disseminating information.”

  “Move to radio and TV.”

  She shrugged. “We have and are. But that’s only as good as the electrical power that supplies them.”

  “Are you suggesting that we’re going to lose power?”

  “What makes you think the rest of the US is any different than those god-forsaken people out west?”

  Harry frowned as Colorado turned black. “What are you suggesting, Ann?”

  “I’m suggesting that there is such a thing as a Category Six pandemic, Harry. And we’re living it right now.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Alan asked Joseph. The question had been percolating in Alan’s brain ever since the other man had picked him up.

  Joseph shrugged. “I had a wife. And a son.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They’re dead.” Joseph’s eyes didn’t waver from the windshield. “We had a church. We tried to help when the plague struck, but the workers got sick—”

  Of course, thought Alan. The workers had been Joseph’s family.

  The houses were giving way to apartment buildings. Alan recognized the area. They were approaching Westwood, the small neighborhood around UCLA. Which meant that they were approaching Beverly Hills, and, god willing, he would soon be home.

  “You had a son,” Joseph continued. “Maybe you still have a wife.”

  Alan wasn’t so sure. The further they drove, the more smoldering piles of garbage, the more looted and destroyed buildings, the more he thought it was impossible that he’d ever see Brooke again.

  Alan should have gotten them out earlier. He stirred painfully in his seat.

  The streets of Westwood were deserted, a densely-clustered ghost town. One entire block had burned, only the smoking, blackened shells of the buildings still standing. The village, as they called the place, bore no resemblance now to the overcrowded commercial district that he had once known. Why, he had taken Jason here only a few months before. They had bought fruit smoothies. Back w
hen Jason still had an immune system…

  He closed his eyes, exhaustion assailing him. “I think you should avoid Rodeo Drive.” Westwood might be abandoned, but he wasn’t so sure about the glitzy, two-block commercial district of Beverly Hills. The expensive jewelry and clothing stores were certain to lure looters.

  “Which way, then?”

  Alan told him, trying to keep his voice even, but inside, anxiety built. He had tried calling Brooke several times, but each time, the iPhone screen showed a “Searching for Service” message.

  They began to climb the hill to the more expensive homes of Beverly Hills. Alan stared. The gates were all open. Had the police demanded access in case they needed to reach the occupants?

  But they have the codes, Alan thought uneasily.

  Something awful formed in his gut. He hadn’t seen a single patrol vehicle or police officer. Just open gates and empty streets in an eerie hillside ghost town of Southern California mansions surrounded by palm trees and wilting gardens.

  “It’s just up ahead,” he said to Joseph, pointing to the gate up the hill.

  Joseph pulled the little car to the gate and stopped. Alan’s eyes shot up the long driveway to the front of the house, where he saw something he couldn’t believe. Hot tears welled in his eyes.

  Brooke’s shiny Mercedes SUV was parked at the front door.

  “Thank you,” Alan said, because he could think of nothing else that would express his gratitude.

  Joseph nodded, his eyes grave behind the Malcolm X glasses.

  “Do you want to come in?” Alan asked. “We may have some food and water.”

  Joseph shook his head.

  Alan looked at him searchingly. He didn’t know this man, would probably never know him, but Joseph had saved Alan’s life, a gift as incomprehensible as the shooting that had nearly taken it away.

  “Anything. Anything,” Alan said suddenly. “You can have anything.” He gestured toward the stately Italianate façade, two perfectly-matched Italian cypresses framing the intricate wrought-iron front door.

  Joseph gazed up the wide, looping driveway at the massive house, so at odds with the neighborhood from which they had just escaped. He shook his head again.

  “Where will you go?” Alan asked.

  “Home,” he said. “To my church.”

  Alan’s throat tightened, an aching pain that transcended the wound in his side. “It’s not safe there. Stay here with me.”

  “Is it safe here?” Joseph asked.

  Alan didn’t know. He wasn’t sure it was safe anywhere in Los Angeles.

  The minister started the car, its small engine rumbling. Alan felt a crazy desire to beg him to stay, but Joseph’s hand was already on the gear shift.

  Alan stepped out of the car and shut the door. On impulse, he leaned through the open passenger window. “I owe you my life,” he said.

  Joseph shook his head. “No, man. You owe God your life. Don’t waste it.” And then he threw the Honda into gear, and the little car lurched down the hill.

  The walk up the driveway was the longest of Alan’s life.

  But somehow, he felt better, the nearness of home powering him up the slight grade to the front door. He no longer felt faint, only exhausted by effort, his breath ragged, his heart pounding. He looked toward Brooke’s car, puzzled.

  The SUV’s driver’s side door was ajar.

  That wasn’t like Brooke. She was a master of small matters. An open door might leave the dome light on, which might drain the battery, which might disable the car, which would be a thing an exacting woman like Brooke would never allow.

  Alan scrutinized the white SUV, expecting something that he couldn’t name. He finally spotted it after he walked to the other side of the vehicle.

  The pavement beneath the SUV had a vague oily sheen, as though something had spilled there and then evaporated, leaving only a glistening shadow on the pavement.

  He stared at the spot, dumbfounded. His mind seemed to be having trouble processing it all, that the pavement was stained, that the driver’s side door was ajar. He went to his knees and leaned over to look beneath the car, not certain what he was looking for, but dreading what he might find.

  There was a hole in the gas tank, the smell of pilfered gasoline floating in the air.

  He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

  Someone had been here.

  He whipped his head around to look at the house, at the front door. The movement caused a moment of dizziness, but fear had sharpened his senses, and he didn’t stagger as he came to his feet.

  The massive front door was broken, the wood splintered near the lock. He could see a small sliver of marble beyond, reflecting light in the grand two-story entry way.

  They didn’t even close the door, Alan thought.

  For a moment, he stood frozen, his heart slamming in his chest. And then fire ignited, a roiling, burning rage roaring his body. He lurched forward and threw the front door wide open.

  “Brooke!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

  Thirty-Eight

  Susan wondered what had happened to the last of the security guards.

  Patients swarmed every hallway—hacking, moaning, and stirring painfully in the half-light. She didn’t know what they would do when night arrived. It had been more than twenty-four hours since the last flicker of electricity.

  She fought her way through the crowd. The smoke and heat of the outside air mingled with the heavy, humid air inside, making it difficult to breathe.

  She couldn’t find Sanders. He wasn’t in the ICU, the residents’ conference room, or the call rooms. She didn’t know how to locate him, short of physically searching, because both the phones and paging system didn’t work.

  Weak hands grabbed at her. “Doctor…”

  Dizzy with hunger, she veered down the back hallway to the Doctor’s Dining Room. Amazingly, the door wasn’t blocked. She pulled at the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it swung open easily.

  The cafeteria itself was empty, the food racks and tray rails bare. There probably isn’t a scrap of food left in the hospital, she realized. She stood there at a loss.

  “Susan.”

  She nearly jumped from surprise. Across the room, Sanders sat hunched in a corner booth, the same place they’d shared a breakfast three weeks earlier.

  “What are you doing here?” She moved quickly toward him, absurdly relieved to see his familiar face. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  His face was haggard, his eyes sunken. She realized with a start that he’d probably had less sleep and food than she’d had.

  “Looks like even the coffee ran out,” she joked, but it wasn’t funny, and she knew it.

  Sanders shrugged listlessly. He looked as if he could barely keep himself upright. “There’s no point to you staying here,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do for them, and night is coming—”

  She slid into the booth opposite him, searching his face. “Are you all right?”

  “No.” He hacked, a convulsive cough that shuddered through him and sent him swaying. Susan reached to steady him, but he shook his head violently.

  “You need to get out of here,” he said. “Susan, everyone will die here, and you will, too, if you stay.”

  She couldn’t believe her eyes. Her throat squeezed painfully. “I won’t leave you.”

  He shook his head as though it weighed a ton. “I know you think you’re immune to the plague because you got that needle stick, but you’re not immune to cholera, or typhoid, or any of the other things that we’re seeing now.” He had trouble getting the words out, the sentence too long for him. “Don’t throw away your life for nothing. Leave while you still can.”

  She could tell his words were exhausting him, the mask he wore choking his labored breath. But he wouldn’t take the mask off with her around. She knew this about him now. She had underestimated him in another time as just another practitioner, but now she realized he was more of a doc
tor than she was. More of a doctor than nearly all of them.

  He’d be dead by morning. She had seen enough cases now to know DRYP’s relentless course. Without oxygen, without IV fluids, without a ventilator or any other medical intervention, it was only a short waiting game, twelve hours of agony and then the blackness of death.

  “Leave me,” he said again.

  She tried to think of anything that she could do for him to ease the terrible hours before him, but there was no clean blanket to wrap around him, no medicine to ease his pain, no water to wet his parched lips.

  She reached a hand to his and touched the fingers, appalled to see the telltale splotches beginning to appear. “I’m so sorry,” she said, voice breaking.

  He shook his head. He didn’t look at her.

  “Good-bye, Sanders,” she said softly, but he didn’t seem to hear.

  He began to cough as she got up. The sound of his suffering followed her as she left the DDR.

  There was no answer to Alan’s calls for Brooke. His voice echoed off the walls.

  The dark-paneled library off the central entryway was in disarray, a large, gaping hole on the wall where the flat screen TV once hung.

  He crossed to the kitchen and the entertainment room. Here, too, the flat screen TV was gone. Wires hung from the ceiling where the built-in sound system had once resided. The enormous wine rack opposite the kitchen’s central island was emptied. Whoever had looted the house had done a thorough job.

  No sign of Brooke.

  Alan took the wide central staircase to the second floor. Brooke wasn’t in the large, Tuscan-styled bedroom or in the adjacent, room-sized closet. She wasn’t in the marble-tiled bathroom, either. Nor in the hallway.

  His breath exploded from his chest as trudged onward. He called her name, but no one unanswered.

  A small, red speck stood out against the polished shine of the hall floor. Another spot lay just beyond it, and then another. The crimson dots merged into a smear.