Affliction Z: Abandoned Hope (Post Apocalyptic Thriller) (6 page)

Addison awoke to a still and quiet apartment. The fan didn’t
blow down at her forehead like normal. She glanced over at her iPod dock. The
usual large bluish numbers were not present. She tugged on the cord, feeling it
tighten, but not give as it remained plugged into the power outlet. She rose,
slid off the bed and walked to her window. Pulling back the drapes, she saw
complete darkness beyond the walls of her bedroom. White dots bounced along the
parking lot. Cones of white light splashed the ground in front of them. She let
her drapes fall and crossed her room, where she took her cell phone off her
dresser. Turning it on, she used the device as her own flashlight.

She grabbed the door handle and turned it slowly. Exercising
caution, she opened the door a crack. The soft glow of fire lit the hallway
near the entrance to the living room.

“Carla?” she said to no response. She slipped out of her
room and took a few steps down the hall. “Carla, are you in there?”

She received a moan this time.

A lump formed in Addison’s throat. She swallowed hard and
continued on. Why hadn’t she grabbed the messenger bag or at least one of the
guns? She had forgotten about them until a moment ago.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Carla moaned louder. Addison figured the woman had drank and
smoked too much and now paid the price. Or worse, not everyone had left.
Someone had stayed behind and attacked her roommate. Although, if that had
happened, why had they left her alone?

Addison peeked around the corner. The front door was closed
and locked, the security bolt engaged. All of the curtains were drawn. Several
candles had been lit and placed on the kitchen table and on the coffee table.
Carla’s right foot rested dangerously close to one of them.

She reached down to shake the woman. Her hand grabbed a hold
of Carla’s sweat soaked shirt and retreated back like a snake coiling. Carla
groaned while her eyelids fluttered. Addison took a deep breath, calming
herself. She reached down again and placed the back of her hand against her
roommate’s forehead. It burned as hot as if she had placed her hand a few
inches over one of the candles.

“You’re burning up,” she said.

Carla nodded but said nothing.

Addison went into the kitchen. She pulled down a few pill bottles
and found the one labeled fever reducer. Shaking the bottle, she realized there
were only a few pills left. She grabbed the faucet and turned it. Fortunately,
the water still worked. She filled a glass, and brought it and two pills to
Carla.

“Take this,” she said.

Carla shifted from her side to her back. She stared up at
Addison. Her mouth was parted. From three feet away, Addison could smell the
foul stench of the woman’s breath.

“Go on,” Addison said, holding out the glass and pills.

Carla reached up and Addison placed the pills in the palm of
the woman’s hand. She waited until Carla had a secure grip on the glass before
letting it go.

“When did you start feeling bad?” Addison asked.

“During the party,” Carla replied. “Maybe an hour before you
got home I had a slight headache. By the time you got here, it felt like my
brain was splitting in two. I figured it was from the beer and the weed, but
this is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’m hot, then cold. Sweating and
freezing at the same time.” She took another drink from the glass. A second
later she coughed and about half of the fluid came back up.

Addison stepped back. “We should get you in your own bed.
Can you stand?”

Carla rose from the couch. The process was excruciatingly
slow. Addison could have assisted, but she didn’t want to be puked on by a
roommate she disliked. As Carla rounded the couch, she stumbled. Addison’s
instincts forced her to reach out, grabbing a hold of Carla’s elbow and saving
her from tumbling to the ground.

“Thanks,” her roommate said in a raspy voice.

“Come on, to bed.” Addison guided Carla toward the woman’s
bedroom. She planned on stopping at the door, but continued inside and helped
her roommate into bed.

“More water,” Carla said.

Addison left the room and filled up two large plastic mugs
with water. Both had lids and straws. She figured they’d create the least
amount of mess. Exiting the room, she swiped the light switch off. If the power
came back on, she didn’t want the light to wake up Carla. She closed the door
behind her and walked to the kitchen to look for something to eat. There wasn’t
much. The scavengers her roommate had let into the apartment had done a good
job of eating almost everything. She found a single pack of dried noodles. A
lot of good that would do her without power to heat the water.

She grabbed a coffee mug, filled it with cold water, and
dumped in the contents of the pouch. Food was food, she told herself. Hot or
cold didn’t matter. It sure as hell wouldn’t matter if the world kept on this
crazy path it had taken over the past twelve hours. She sat down at the table
and stuffed her mouth full of cold noodles. Her back was to the door, leaving
her feeling uncomfortable. She rose, went to her bedroom and grabbed the
messenger bag, lifting the strap over her head and onto her shoulder. She
returned to the kitchen table, where her half-eaten mug of food waited. As she
sat down, the lights flicked back on.

“Dammit,” she muttered, annoyed at having eaten cold food.
She rose again and carried the mug to the microwave. Thirty seconds later, she
had a steaming hot meal. Half of one, at least. She took another look in the
pantry and found a half-full bag of store-brand corn chips. She took one out
and bit into it. It was stale, but it’d do. She took the mug of noodles and the
bag of chips to the couch. She returned to the kitchen once more and grabbed a
beer from the fridge. What the hell, she figured.

She settled onto the couch after dousing it with
disinfectant. The scented spray was not strong enough to cover up the foul
smell left behind by Carla. Fearing that her roommate had defecated on the
sofa, Addison moved to the recliner.

She switched on the television. Over ninety percent of the
stations available ran one of three news feeds. A map of the United States
showed several dots of varying size and shades of orange and red. Every major
city she could identify on the east coast had a bright red circle hovering over
it. It looked a lot like an election map, only with the republicans winning
major metropolitan areas.

Vice President Harkness appeared on the screen. He urged
that everyone exercise extreme caution and vigilance. He said that emergency
services were still operating, and local law enforcement was there to protect
citizens. There was no need, at this time, for martial law.

Addison laughed at the statements. Her walk through town a
few hours prior told her that the police were as scared as everyone else over
what was happening. Any of them that had remained on the job would bail on the
public soon enough.

Besides, why was the Vice President addressing the public?
Where was President Bryant? Had he become sick? Perhaps they’d already ushered
him underground where he’d be safe while everyone else in the country perished.

She pressed the mute button and left the sound off until the
speech was over. She had no interest in words meant to calm people instead of
telling them what was truly happening. She grabbed another beer out of the
fridge. This one was slightly less warm than the previous beer. From the kitchen,
she heard her roommate moaning.

Was the woman awake and in pain? Or sleeping and having
fever dreams?

Addison fought the urge to check on Carla and went back to
the recliner. She sat down as the Vice President’s speech ended. A brown-haired
reporter came on. Above the woman’s head was a banner that said “Live.” Addison
unmuted the television and turned the volume up. The woman had already
announced her name and got all formalities out of the way.

The reporter said, “The virus that is sweeping the nation
has resulted in over five hundred thousand deaths globally, and at least ten
thousand in the U.S. An unnamed source has informed us that while a large
percentage of those who are affected will not survive, the length of time it
takes for the body to shut down varies.” She paused and coughed. “Excuse me. It
is the belief of our source that what we have seen today is only the tip of the
iceberg.” The woman rose and turned away from the camera. The jerking of her
body indicated a violent coughing attack. She turned around, a forced smile
plastered on her face. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth and covered
her lips. “Again, though this source is anonymous, I have no reason to doubt
the validity of his statements. He further informed us that the virus has the
ability to mutate those who are affected. As we all saw in the streets of
Morocco, there were those who appeared to be attacking other humans. It was as
though the attacking group were a pack of animals.”

A man stepped in front of the camera, resulting in a bright
white screen for a few moments. He reappeared across the desk from the reporter
with a towel in his hand. He patted her face with it. She stared at her blood
spread across the towel. Her eyes grew wide before she had another coughing attack.
She grabbed the towel from the man and pressed it to her face. The fit did not
stop. She rose and left the set. The sounds of her agony played through the
speakers.

Addison flipped to another channel. The station was
replaying the Vice President’s speech. She muted the sound again. Carla coughed
some more. Addison watched the clock, counting the minutes until her roommate
finally settled down again. Five. Five minutes of non-stop coughing.

Is that what’s in store for all of us?

Turk closed the door to his room and fell back into an
oversized chair. The first day had not gone according to plan. Perhaps things
happened the way they were supposed to. The virus spread across the country
more rapidly than he ever imagined. The information he had been given said that
the worst-case scenario would be a week from the first reports of outbreaks
overseas. Maybe he’d been naive believing the information.

Never trust the government, his dad had always said. As he
had much of his life, Turk wished he’d listened to the old man.

He reached into a side compartment built into the chair and
retrieved a remote. He switched on a set of six thirty-two inch monitors
mounted to the wall. Combined, they formed a rectangle that took up half the
space. Two of the monitors displayed a full screen image of the two largest
spaces in the compound, the kitchen and eating area, and the main living and
recreation area. His wife and daughter were in the kitchen. His daughter stood
on a footstool while his wife mixed something in a bowl. Maybe they were making
cookies or brownies or something else that Turk didn’t approve of, but didn’t
have the heart to say no to when his little girl asked if she could have some.

The four other monitors were split into dual and quad
displays. They monitored other areas of the facility, including bedrooms. Turk
had told the others that their private areas were unmonitored. Maybe they would
be, one day. But until he knew he could trust everyone inside, he’d watch them
like a hawk.

He adjusted the displays until one was free. Then he rose
and retrieved a wireless keyboard that had a touchpad built into it above the
number pad. He’d grown accustomed to using it over the past few years, and
figured why let the end of the world stop him.

First he pulled up the SSH server. Sean was still logged in,
but showed idle. Tim Lindley was logged in, too. Tim had served in the SEALs
with Turk in the late nineties. Now, Tim had his own island in the Exumas, an
archipelago in the southeast corner of the Bahamas. His island was about a
quarter-mile across and a mile long. It had fresh water and plenty of
vegetation. Tim had built his own compound on the island, taking advantage of
wind, solar and water for power. It was completely isolated, too, with nothing
for tens of miles in any direction, except for a few sweeping sandbars. Tim had
nicknamed the island Turtle Cay. When pressed by Turk for information on how he
was able to pay for it, Tim declined.

Turk’s plan was to lead his people to Turtle Cay after the
chaos died down. He figured they’d make their move in a year, unless their
position became compromised.

He pulled up a cursor prompt and began typing. “How’re
things there, Tim?”

A few moments later, Tim replied. “Wouldn’t know the world
was in chaos from where I’m sitting.”

“You secure your boats?”

“They’re up on land and inside concrete bunkers.”

“Did you manage to get a plane?”

“Ten-four,” Tim replied.

“Let’s hope you never have to use it. It’s gonna be a bitch
up there soon.”

“Not so much up there, but trying to figure out where to
land and refuel.”

“I know. I don’t want you to put yourself in that situation
unless we’re sure you can get gas.” Turk paused for a moment to check the
camera feeds. “Anyway, we’ve discussed this a dozen times. I just wanted to
check in on you and make sure all was okay there. Did you manage to get the
kids and their families to the island?”

“All but one.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“He’s on a boat, and we’ve been in touch. He should be here
in a week at the latest.”

As long as he doesn’t have to go to shore
. Turk ended
the conversation by telling Tim to stay logged on and to check in every six
hours by posting a message. If only he could get more people to do the same.
They were all in for a lonely few weeks, or months. For some, the server might
be the only contact they’d have. But for how long? Those that didn’t have a
means of satellite communication would be cut off at some point.

When would that be?

Turk pulled up the AP news site and scanned the latest
articles. He figured in a few days the updates would stop. Reporters would
either get sick and die, or get sick and mutate. Maybe one or two would survive
the initial virus, but then what? If they had no support network in place, they
were as good as dead, like most anyone who survived this thing.

One report caught his eye. Cities had begun establishing
shelters for people to gather. A recipe for disaster in Turk’s opinion. Someone
who took longer to show symptoms would make their way inside the shelter,
infecting countless others. Some would die. Some would turn. They would kill
anyone left. And what about those turned beings wandering the street? How long
until they smelled the stink of the living and found their way to the source?

He minimized the browser and adjusted all six monitors back
to their original configuration. He saw his brother enter the living and
recreation area. Marcus walked through the room as if he owned the place. Had
it been a mistake to welcome him into the compound? Turk hadn’t thought so
until the incident with the police officer. He knew there would be some
immaturity to deal with. He hoped that watching the world fall apart would be
enough to force Marcus to grow up and take things seriously. Apparently not. He
had to keep his brother on a short leash. If things boiled over too far, and
someone had to go, Turk had to be prepared to make his brother be that someone
if he deserved it.

Marcus walked into the kitchen. Turk’s gaze shifted to the
next monitor. He saw his little girl cringe, get off her stool and move to the
other side of her mother. Turk leaned forward and adjusted the volume for that
display. Nothing happened, though. He didn’t need sound to know that Marcus had
offended Turk’s wife. The woman dropped her mixer and aimed a loaded finger in
the man’s direction.

Turk cut the displays and left his room. He let the door
fall shut, then engaged the security lock. He walked down the long, dimly lit
hallway, and then cut through a passage that only he knew about. The secret
hall led to the pantry, which, when he emerged from it, placed him directly
behind his brother.

“What are you doing, Marcus?” Turk said.

Marcus spun around. His eyes and mouth were open wide.
Behind him, Turk’s wife Elana smiled. Layla stepped out from behind her mother.
Tear tracks stained her cheeks.

Turk held out his hand and gestured for Layla to go back to
her mother. He took a step toward Marcus. They were within arm’s reach of each
other.

“I asked you a question, Marcus.”

Marcus licked his lips and smiled. “Just messin’ around,
bro. That’s all.”

Turk took another step. He was close enough to smell the
garlic on his brother’s breath. “Why’s Layla crying?”

“You know kids, man.”

“I’m going to make this as clear as I can. I don’t want any
trouble in here. We’re all inside this building for a common purpose. Nobody
needs an asshole to screw this up. First one that goes will be you.” He held up
a finger as Marcus opened his mouth. “I know what you’re gonna say. Forget
about it. I don’t care what Mom made me promise. The moment you endanger my family
is the moment I have no use for you. That clear?”

“Crystal,” Marcus said through his clenched teeth.

Both men remained still, staring at each other. Turk felt
beads of sweat on his forehead, and trickling down his chest and back. His
muscles stayed tense, waiting for an attack.

Finally, Marcus let his shoulders slump and he took a step
back, turned, and left the kitchen. Turk blocked the door for a minute
afterward. He felt Layla grab hold of his hand. He wished his other daughter,
Becky, had hold of the other. But she wasn’t there, and Turk knew he had to
come to grips with the fact that he might not ever see her again.

“What did he say?” Turk asked Elana.

“It was nothing.”

Turk looked at her and lifted an eyebrow. “Nothing? Why was
she in tears?”

“Because I yelled at him.” She paused and looked up at the
ceiling. “Just let it go, Turk. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to let it go. If there
was a serious issue, he wanted it resolved then and there. Not three months down
the road when the team was so tight that the loss of one person destroyed their
odds.

“Please?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’ll leave you two to your cookies.”